


Thicker than Blood

by Arielphf



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon - Engaging gap-filler, Canon - Enhances original, Characters - Friendship, Characters - Good use of minor character(s), Characters - Strongly in character, General, Plot - Bittersweet, Plot - I reread often, Subjects - Medical/Healing, War of the Ring, Writing - Clear prose, Writing - Every word counts, Writing - Well-handled PoV(s), Writing - Well-handled dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-28 17:25:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 24,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3863119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arielphf/pseuds/Arielphf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From Frodo's fall at the ford to his waking at Rivendell - the story Tolkien only hinted at...</p><p>Angst, graphic medical details, book canon, gap filler, non-slash, PG-13</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Ford

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

_The black horses were filled with madness, and leaping forward in terror they bore their riders into the rushing flood. Their piercing cries were drowned in the roaring of the river as it carried them away. Then Frodo felt himself falling, and the roaring and confusion seemed to rise and engulf him together with his enemies. He heard and saw no more._

The Fellowship of the Ring: Book 1, ‘The Flight to the Ford’

 

Strider was first to reach the far bank. He’d seen the elf horse standing at the top, stamping impatiently in the fading afternoon light, but there was no sign of the rider. The ringwraiths and their steeds had washed down the Greyflood, he could still make out the dark form of one of the beasts caught on a spit of stone, but nothing moved now, and all was silent save for the rushing of the river. Glorfindel came gracefully ashore, aiding the hobbits, who it seemed, could not wait for the flood to abate for an easier crossing. Sam struggled over the rocks as close behind the elf as he could manage. He had not seen Frodo fall, but one moment his master had been desperately clinging to the back of the elf’s steed and next, he had not. Sam was sick with the fear that Frodo had fallen into the river and been carried off into the angry current with the black riders, but as he looked up to the top of the bank, he saw Strider kneel at something on the ground. Frodo. It had to be.

He clambered up the bank, knocking stones and dirt down on Merry, who was no less eager than he was to see what had become of his cousin. He heard the elf-horse nicker softly, almost mournfully and looked to where Strider crouched. The first sight of his master’s body froze Sam’s blood. The dark cloak that laid over him seemed impossibly flat to the ground, as if Frodo were pressed down by the agonies of the past fortnight. A sick feeling of dread froze Sam’s heart and he stumbled, afraid to come closer. The feet that stuck out from beneath the cloak and the legs that could be seen above them were impossibly pale, stripped of even the faintest hint of the blush of blood. Sam had never before seen limbs that color on a living hobbit and his head reeled as the thought came to him that his master might have indeed perished. Strider pulled the cloak back from Frodo’s face and felt gingerly at his neck. Sam was almost afraid to breathe.

“He’s alive,” the ranger murmured. “Though I do not know if he has succumbed to their will.” He turned and looked at Glorfindel and Merry and Pippin who were still climbing up the bank. “I will carry him into the valley, but will you ride on and have Elrond prepare?” His stern grey eyes focused squarely on the elf. “A litter, perhaps, would be welcome, and swift bodies to carry it. It is not a long journey to Rivendell from the ford, but we are weary and have need of careful haste.” He frowned and a look of deep compassion crossed his grim features. “Please, say nothing to Bilbo,” he added softly. “I wish to give him this news myself.”

The elf-lord nodded and, forgoing the shortened stirrups, leapt onto his horse and sped off into the growing shadows at the foothills of the Misty Mountains without a word. Strider carefully rolled Frodo onto his back. His lips were grey and his skin cold to the touch, but he was breathing, though shallowly. Merry gave a soft, heartbroken cry and rushed to his cousin. Sam, trembling with fear but able to move at last, stooped to catch Frodo’s head as Strider laid it gently to earth. The two hobbits knelt by Frodo’s side opposite Strider as the ranger quickly examined him. Pippin hung back, his eyes opening as wide as saucers when he saw the deathly pallor on his elder cousin’s face. He gulped in his terror.

“He…he’s not dead…. Is he?” Pippin’s voice shook. He looked nearly as pale as Frodo.

“Not dead, no…” Strider answered. “But maybe worse than dead – I do not know yet. I will carry him to Rivendell and perhaps while I do I can sense something of his fate. I have done all I could for him – only Elrond can do more – and even that may not be enough if, as I fear, it is too late already.” Under Frodo’s body laid his cracked and splintered barrow blade. Strider picked up the pieces and weighed them in his palm. “At least he resisted ere he fell. “ He glanced from the fragments of blade to the pale, still face and his stony features softened a bit. “Gave them a fight, didn’t you my friend?” he whispered. “They didn’t expect that from the likes of you, I’ll warrant.” He dropped the pieces into his pouch and slipped his arms under the hobbit to lift him.

Sam supported his master’s head as Strider settled his body against him, and pulled the hood up over his curls to keep the older hobbit warm. It was all Sam could do and when it was done he felt inept and impotent – as he had for most of the past two weeks watching Frodo fall deeper and deeper under the influence of his wound. There was still nothing he could really do for him. Merry wrapped the cloak tight about Frodo’s feet and stepped back, his eyes glistening with held back tears. Frodo’s pale face shone dimly from where it lay nestled in the crook of Strider’s arm, a ghost among the dark folds of fabric. Sam, too, felt hot tears sting his eyes.

“I’m trustin’ you with him, Mr. Strider, Sir…” he began. “I know I’ve been very suspicious of you, bein’ as you are, one of the big folk and a shifty looking one at that. But you’ve stood by us through some near scrapes and I’ve come to think there’s a mite more to you than meets the eye.” He touched Frodo’s cold, smudged cheek. “And that's why I'll say you gotta save him, Mr. Strider. Please…” he sniffled sorrowfully. “You have to…” Then words failed him and the tears he had fought fell freely.

Strider held Frodo’s cold body close and gave Sam a solemn nod, accepting the charge that he had laid upon him. “I will do everything within my power, Sam.” He looked up at Pippin, who had not moved and whose eyes were still wide with fear, and to Merry, who, in an effort to keep his own tears at bay, was scrambling back up the bank with the pony. “We must reach the trail to Rivendell as quickly as we are able, but it is a treacherous walk even before we reach the ravine. Be alert and follow close behind. If you miss the trail you will never find the valley. Quickly now!”

Strider’s pace was astounding. Though he walked, the hobbits and Bill the pony had to jog to keep up to him. They soon understood the origin of the man’s name quite well for his long, smooth strides ate up the distance while jostling his small passenger very little. They followed no path, or so it seemed, but the ranger moved unerringly through the foothills. Hours later, at the head of an unmarked ravine, seemingly no different from many others they had passed, Strider turned. Sam could see no trail as he looked into the steep sided valley below, but tugged on Bill’s lead and followed anyway.

There was a path there and it was steep and zig-zagged sharply as it worked its way down the valley. The hobbits moved slowly through the deepening dusk for keeping to the slippery track was difficult and even the sure-footed pony was hard pressed to do it. Strider was far ahead of them and almost out of sight when they first heard whispers in the trees and saw faint elvish torches and twinkling lights coming up the path ahead of them. Strider’s distant form was silhouetted against the light. They pressed on even more quickly and reached the party just as Frodo, now laid gently upon a litter stretched with green fabric, was being lifted again. Gandalf was there and greeted them all solemnly though his eyes were filled sorrow. He walked beside them as four tall, willowy elves carried Frodo towards the hall. The elves bore him as gently as a sleeping babe though they moved even more swiftly than Strider had done. The warming breeze was all that moved him as it lifted the dark curls from his brow.


	2. The Ford

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Frodo's fall at the ford to his waking at Rivendell - the story Tolkien only hinted at...

Glorfindel’s return woke Bilbo from his evening nap. He had been dreaming again. It was the same curiously dark but enticing dream he had been having for weeks. He felt called, beckoned by someone he ached to return to. He could see no face, merely a hint of shadow and flame, but in his dream he felt no fear, only a dark thrill that, at last, he was being called to. He was never afraid during the dream, though each waking brought with it a nameless dread, as if only with the return of his senses did he recognize the peril of his vision

The elf-lord’s arrival stirred a quiet but hurried rush into the people of Elrond’s house and he was curious about the commotion. Of course, a commotion among elves was a fairly innocuous affair, none of the bustling and calling of his own kind, merely the swift whir of elven feet in the corridors and the melodic sound of their voices speaking with gentle urgency, instead of song. He wondered if they were finally preparing for his nephew’s arrival. He smiled, forgetting his dread. Bilbo had always called Frodo nephew. Because of the difference in their ages, it sounded more appropriate even if it wasn’t entirely accurate. Frodo had set out from Hobbiton weeks before and he was getting anxious about it. He was overdue; for surely the trip should not have taken a full month, but Elrond assured Bilbo that everything was all right, and his nephew would be there soon.

Bilbo scoffed and struggled to sit up in his bed. His body was aging fast, but he was not yet in his dotage. Elrond was not telling him something; of that he was fairly sure. He wiggled his stiff toes on the stone floor working them a bit before attempting to stand. He was old but when he first came back to Rivendell he had felt so much younger than was his due. The journey to Dale started out brightly, but even before he reached Mirkwood, he knew it would be his last adventure. Age and creeping infirmity were settling swiftly upon him, as if catching up to all the years he had spent spryly in the Shire. At least, in the house of Elrond, he was tenderly and respectfully cared for and his aches and pains troubled him less than they might have had he remained among his own people.

He stood and made his way down to the kitchens. Dinner was over but the cooks were happy to provide him with food and drink. They were used to Bilbo’s odd schedule and his frequent meals, though he never ate much at a sitting anymore. He carried the food out to a broad, stone paved balcony that overlooked a southwesterly facing ravine. It was the selfsame hollow he had trod more than 70 years ago, the first time he came to Rivendell. On the trail below, a small host of elves were gathered. Gandalf stood with them, speaking intently and gesturing up the pathway. It looked as if they were preparing to climb. Bilbo peered over the rail with interest. One object the group carried caught his eye. It looked like a kite; a square wooden frame covered with a silky green fabric. For a moment, he pondered what the object could be and then a chill of realization struck him. It was a litter: a frame for carrying someone who was unable to travel. The continuation of the thought chilled him even deeper. Frodo was expected at Rivendell at any time and elves were proceeding up the road he would take with a litter…. Bilbo shook and his heart quelled as the implications of the thought set his mind racing.

“Now, you old fool!” he scolded himself, settling on a bench and putting down the plate and cup before he dropped them. “Don’t go jumping to conclusions. Just because you are waiting for someone, doesn’t mean he’s the one who needs a litter!” His fingers trembled despite his efforts to quash his suddenly fertile imagination. There was no reason for him to fear that Frodo was injured, they would have told him of it, surely. Still, he could not shake his apprehension. He shook his head, scoffing at his foolishness. His nephew was a perfectly sensible hobbit by more than just his account, and Gandalf had promised he would be protected. Still… For years Elrond had warned Bilbo of traveling, saying that the enemy was searching for him and he was much safer here. What if the great enemy had turned his eye to Frodo instead?

“I am an old fool!” He was angry with himself. “I’ll just march straight down and ask what the matter is. Elrond will answer me if I put it to him directly.” Bilbo took a deep breath and watched as Gandalf and the elves below started up the path. He picked up his meal, uneaten, and trotted back into the house.

Elrond took a bit of searching to find, but after asking about, Bilbo found his host in the storage rooms picking through ropes of braided herbs and long dried roots. The scent of dusty flowers and the sweet perfume of summer green pervaded the room. Bilbo fought back the urge to sneeze. Elrond did not turn, but appeared to know who stood behind him. He also seemed to have some understanding of what troubled his little guest. “And what have you heard, my friend?” There was a tone in his silky voice that told Bilbo that though he would answer his questions, it would pain him greatly to do so.

“Nothing at all, sir!” Bilbo answered with forced gaiety. “Your folk tend me kindly and with reverence – like some old mathom that would shatter if handled – but though I look frail and feeble, my mind is still sharp as ever. ” He fixed Elrond with his sternest no-nonsense stare. “For days and days I have been aware that more was not being said to me than was said. You folk keep secrets well, but I have dwelt here long enough to know you and I can tell just by the way you are looking at me that something is dreadfully amiss.” The old hobbit frowned. “Is it Frodo?” he finished softly, hoping but no longer expecting Elrond to allay his fears.

The elf-lord’s enigmatic eyes held the old hobbit for a long moment. Bilbo’s own stare faltered and his chest tightened as he grew more certain his guess was right. “Tell me!” he gasped.

“I will know more when I see him.” Elrond’s voice was kind, comforting and sincere, though his gaze remained inscrutable. “It is true he was attacked and wounded by servants of the enemy, but he is strong and was not slain. He is strong still, though with each hour that passes his strength wanes.”

Bilbo sagged, feeling suddenly as old as his years. “Attacked? Wounded?” It felt like the walls of the close room were rushing towards him. “But why? Because of me? Of my ring?” His voice tightened and the question fairly squeaked out. Elrond placed a comforting hand on the hobbit’s shoulder, steadying him.

“Because Frodo is selfless and brave, and dared to defy the dark lord. Sauron knows little of hobbit-kind – few of us knew much about you before your adventures – and thought he could overcome your nephew with ease. It has surprised and enraged him that he was resisted… “

Bilbo felt cold dread, like that he felt after his dream, returning. A gnawing hollowness filled his belly. The thought that an enemy as great as Sauron targeted his nephew, his heir, and the hobbit he loved most in the world was terrifying beyond measure. He looked up at Elrond again and now saw pity and sorrow in his ageless grey eyes. He understood. They had wanted to spare him this pain, he could see that, and had held this truth from him as long as they could. They knew how the news would affect him. He pulled himself together with a great effort, squelching the cold terror with every bit of his will. He would not make his host regret this disclosure, especially since Bilbo himself had demanded it. “We are a doughty lot, we hobbits,” he sighed. “And my Frodo is the best of the Shire, mark my words. He’ll be all right.” Bilbo wished he felt as much confidence as he tried to put in his voice. Elrond smiled again.

“There are many healing hands in my house. If we cannot save him, none can.” He gave the hobbit’s shoulder a compassionate squeeze. “And you are right, there is much more to hobbits than meets the eye. I am sure your nephew can be made whole again.” At that Bilbo nodded, though he thought Elrond did not sound as convincing as he might have. The ancient elf took his arm and guided him from the room with kind words and a tone that held the gentlest of dismissals. It was the tone more than the words that told the hobbit that Elrond had much work to do, and Bilbo needed to trust him and let him do it.

Alone and not much comforted, Bilbo wandered along the elegantly decorated corridor. He was still numb and trying desperately to keep from imagining the very worst. His thoughts ran back to a dark day at the foot of the Lonely Mountain, where he had come to the bedside of Thorin Oakenshield to gain back his forgiveness and friendship. Thorin had died that day, and Bilbo had felt as if his heart would break from sorrow; but this… this was different. This was Frodo. The old hobbit approached the door that was beneath the balcony from which he had watched the elves and wizard depart. He could still see far off up the trail the flicker of elvish lights in the gloom of dusk. He shivered. Frodo was as dear to him as any child of his own could have been and perhaps more so because of the two of them were so alike. They had been drawn together; the lonely bachelor and lonelier orphan, and in making Frodo his heir, Bilbo had at last found contentment. Even though he had not seen the boy for nearly 20 years, the knowledge that he was safe in the protected Shire and provided for as master of Bag End was great comfort. That knowledge alone had enabled him to journey onwards.

He sat, hunched down on a bench outside the great hewn doors of the last homey house and stared miserably out at the forests surrounding it. That small comfort was gone. If he lost Frodo… The thought of the lad laid out as Thorin had been was too painful to bear and even worse was the guilt growing in his mind. It was his old ring, of course. Elrond had not confirmed his suspicion but it was the only thing that made any sense. If only they had let him go back to get it! Several times he suggested returning to the Shire for it, but Elrond and Gandalf always turned his intent gently aside, telling him that the dark lord and others were searching for him and assuring him that everyone would be better off if the ring remained in Frodo’s hands. Yes, he mused bitterly, everyone but Frodo.

He stirred uncomfortably. The lights were gone now; they had traveled far beyond his aging sight up the thin, rocky trail. This entire mess was his fault. If he had never picked up that accursed thing, never kept it, never passed it on to his heir… Hot rage filled his heart. Gandalf had told him to do it – practically forced his hand – and though the wizard had assured him that he would protect Frodo, he most obviously had not. Bilbo set his jaw and leaned back against the wall of the house. He would wait and when the party returned, he would have stern words for Gandalf’s ears. He would also make quite certain that the ring came back to his safe keeping. He would not see his nephew imperiled again.

A cold smile crossed his face as he thought about his ring. He could still see it in his minds eye, it’s perfect gold circle glittering brightly in the firelight. It was such a precious little bauble. He still could not see what all the fuss was about. Though he knew the tale of the ring’s creation and was aware of its true nature, he could never find it in his heart to condemn the thing. His anger was directed to its creator, and now towards Gandalf for forcing him to give it to Frodo, but whenever he tried to think ill of the ring itself, he couldn’t. It was as if any malice he might rightly feel towards it merely rolled off it’s shining surface. He closed his eyes, imagining the feel of its cold weight in his hand. Yes, he thought, soon, and with a satisfied sigh his head nodded and he slipped back into his dark dream.


	3. Excision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Frodo's fall at the ford to his waking at Rivendell - the story Tolkien only hinted at...

The hobbits were stumbling with exhaustion as the lights of Rivendell came into sight. Their pace had been excruciating and even the knowledge that their journey had come to an end did little to cheer their sorrow filled and weary hearts. Sam came into the dell and gratefully handed the pony to the elf who reached for him. His concern was for his master, and regardless of the fondness he had for Bill, Frodo came first. They were carrying him in now, and the three hobbits, almost lost among the tall elves, strove to follow. Sam paid little heed to the magnificence of the huge house, and was not even able to be awed by the intrinsic elvishness of its architecture – he had eyes only for the small, still form being carried before him. He also did not see the little figure who slept by the entrance in the shadows, nor did he note when Gandalf slowed and came to stand quietly before it.

The elves wound their way along torch lit corridors until they came to a dark, carved door. They carried Frodo through it and carefully laid him on the bed in the center of the fire lit room. One of the elves, a dark haired, grey eyed lord, bent to undo Frodo’s cloak, but Sam was instantly by the bedside pushing the elf’s hands away.

“That’s alright, beggin’ your pardon, sir, but I’ll do that.” he insisted with a boldness that surprised even him. The elf merely smiled and nodded serenely.

“As you wish,” he replied. “The lord Elrond will be here soon and will wish to examine him. Remove his clothes and place any trinkets he has into this box.” The elf gestured to a small wooden case adorned with silver runes. Sam nodded and looked to Merry who stood at the foot of the bed. The other hobbit came to him quickly, and Pippin, not wanting to be caught way from the others of his kind in this great, imposing house, followed closely.

“Hold him up…” Sam lifted Frodo’s limp body and Merry laid him against his shoulder as Sam pulled the cloak from under his master. Then he carefully removed the heavy coat and bloodstained waistcoat, the ring still held to a button by its fine chain. He turned and pushed the bundle of clothes towards a still shocked and terrified Pippin. The young hobbit stared blankly for a moment and then, as if suddenly understanding, accepted the bundle and clutched it tightly to his breast. Even through the thin shirt, Sam could feel the chill in his master’s arm had intensified alarmingly. It felt like it was made of ice only infinitely colder. He undid the braces where they hooked into Frodo’s breeches as Merry undid the buttons of his shirt. Together they slipped both off his body and laid him gently back.

They could see where the creeping chill radiated from – the small cold mark on his shoulder was the center of it, and Frodo’s left arm and much of the side of his torso was even paler and more grey in color than the rest of him. Through the undressing, Frodo had not even twitched and Sam placed his hand on the older hobbit’s chest to insure that he was even still alive. The heartbeat felt slow and sluggish through Frodo’s chilled skin, but it was there and Sam felt some measure of comfort in that.

An inarticulate choking cry from behind made all three hobbits turn to look. Strider stood by the door, his arm protectively supporting a very aged and alarmed looking Bilbo. At any other time, Sam would have been overjoyed to see his old master, but under the circumstances, it merely added to his pain.

“He’s in the best hands he can be, right now, my friend,” Strider was saying softly. “I am sorry you had to see him like this, but there is still hope. Frodo is strong and has not succumbed, as I feared. He is tough, like you. Elrond will help him.”

Sam had never in his life seen Bilbo Baggins look so stricken. The old hobbit’s eyes were fixed, staring at Frodo where he lay, unmoving on the terribly white bed. His lips quivered noiselessly and he took a few hesitant steps forward, holding his hand out to support himself against the mattress. Tears glittered at the corners of his eyes but he was struck too dumb to shed them. He drank in the sight of his injured heir and the vision sank deeply to his heart. As he stumbled past the other hobbits, Sam heard him speak in the faintest of whispers.

“My dear, sweet boy, what have I done to you?”

He placed a hand on Frodo’s arm, the left one, and looked down at the limb, astonished at the cold he felt. That was the catalyst, for suddenly he began to sob and bent double over Frodo’s body, reaching around the pale torso to take him in a heartbroken, tormented embrace. Strider was there in an instant, holding the hobbit’s shaking shoulders, trying gently to pull him back. Though the grizzled ranger had been grieved over Frodo’s injury, Sam had not once seen him as affected by his master’s condition as he obviously was by the distress it caused Bilbo. The old hobbit could not be moved; he hugged Frodo’s body tightly and wept against his cold breast. Strider’s own eyes glistened with tears too as he tried to pull Bilbo gently away.

“Please, my friend… “ The ranger’s voice was thick. “Come away! You must be strong, for him, as he was strong for you. Let Elrond’s people tend him. It is our only hope!”

Bilbo’s grip had lifted Frodo slightly. His head lolled back and his pale lips parted. A weak and pitiful moan issued from them. It was the first sound or movement he had made since the ford and the agony echoed in it smote the hearts of his friends. Bilbo looked into his nephew’s face, startled and weeping, and Strider took the opportunity to disengage the older hobbit’s hold.

“Come away, Bilbo… You can do nothing but grieve him. He would not want to see you in such torment. Please, come away.” Strider knelt and took Bilbo into his arms. “Trust in Elrond, he will not fail you.” Bilbo sobs eased and he wiped his eyes, trying desperately to regain himself. He nodded.

“Yes, I know….” Those standing beside him could barely hear his small voice. He allowed himself to be led from the bedside by Strider.

“The other halflings should go with him, my foster-son,” came a clear, firm elven voice behind them. Sam looked up startled, and saw a new elf had come into the room. Tall he was, dark haired and ageless, with grey eyes as clear as evening. If the other elves had seemed lordly to Sam, this one could have been more rightly called kingly, so powerful was his presence among them. Strider nodded, and put a hand out to gather Merry and Pippin to his side. Sam stepped back.

“I’ll not leave my master, sir, no matter what you say. I’m standing by him, come what may. There’s naught you can do about that!” He crowded close to his master’s body and glared defiantly to the tall elf. Sam’s stand brought a sad smile to the ageless face and he gave a barely perceptible nod.

“So be it, but the rest should go with Bilbo. He will have need of the comfort of many friends this night, as will they.” The tall elf lord looked towards Strider and the ranger began shepherding the party towards the door.

“Half a moment!” Sam touched Pippin’s arm and fumbled for the waistcoat. He handed the younger hobbit the shirt and braces he still held in his hands and unhooked the fine chain from its middle button, drawing the bright ring out of its pocket. Coldly it glittered in the firelight, but Sam could spare no admiration for the hated thing that had grieved his master so. He dropped it quickly into the waiting box and shut the lit tight. “Now, go on, Master Pip. You and Mr. Merry, take right good care of Mr. Bilbo. I’ll see Mr. Frodo is cared for proper. Don’t you worry.” At that, Bilbo turned and nodded to Sam. He had not seen what the other hobbit had placed in the ornate box.

“There’s a good lad, Sam. You stand by him. I’ll be all right.” He sniffed loudly and wiped his eyes again, but did not resist as Strider led him and the other two hobbits from the room.

Sam watched the door close behind them and felt suddenly very small beside his master. _Well, Sam,_ he thought. _You wanted to see elves, and now you’re right in the middle of the most elvish group you’re ever likely to see._ He knew he would have forgone any such ‘pleasure’ if it could have brought his master back to him safe and whole.

“I am Elrond,” the kingly elf told him. “And I will see what we can do for your master.” He approached Frodo and sat easily on the edge of the bed beside him. For a long moment, he sat gazing upon the wounded hobbit, searching his still face. He placed a long fingered hand above the wound and hesitantly, as if he knew the touch would cause them both pain, laid his palm upon it. Frodo twitched, weakly, and drew a laborious breath, his head falling limply to the side, but the change on Elrond’s face was darker and more intense. The elf lord’s brow creased with pain and he grimaced, but held his hand tightly against the wound. Slowly, a clear glow, so faint Sam half fancied it was his imagination, seemed to grow about the hand and Frodo’s shoulder under it. It became stronger, but still remained faint near the surface of Frodo’s pale skin, as if the coldness of the hobbit’s wound sapped the power of it. Frodo jerked spasmodically, and whimpered but Elrond held fast, though it obviously caused him great pain to do so. Sam looked on, astounded, at the two of them apparently locked in a desperate struggle. At last the glow seemed to be gaining on the wound. A warmth spread from Elrond’s fingers and gradually, Frodo’s skin became more translucent, more lifelike though still as pale around it. The shift of hue spread slowly across his body, down his arm and across his face. Frodo sighed softly and sagged into the pillow. Elrond closed his eyes and sighed wearily also.

“I have given him some strength, but darkness remains in the wound. It is as we feared. Part of that sinister weapon must be buried deep within him. I will need to remove it before he can be healed.”

Sam started and blinked. “What do you mean?” he asked, alarmed.

Elrond looked at him and Sam almost flinched under the intensity of the stare. “I will have to open the wound and find the bit of the blade that is lodged there. It is the only way to cure him. Will you still stay by him?”

Now it was Sam’s turn to pale. He nodded and swallowed. “I said I would and I will. You’ll not chase me away that easily. My master needs me.”

Elrond’s expression was unreadable. “Nothing in this will be easy to watch or to bear. I needed to prepare you for it. You must be very strong for both of your sakes.” He turned and motioned to another elf. A tray was brought and placed on the stand beside the bed, in front of the wooden box that held the ring. On it were several knives, and sharp bits of shining metal, slender, luminous and glittering. They were unadorned and mysterious and their cold gleaming chilled Sam’s heart. They were going to cut into his master. He swallowed again, forcing the bile that had risen in his throat back down with a supreme effort. He would stand by him whither or no.

“You will need to hold him,” Elrond spoke to the dark haired elf that had first begun to undress Frodo. The other nodded and sat down on the opposite side of the bed. He gently turned Frodo’s head so that he faced the ceiling again and placed a slim hand on his forehead. The other hand he placed over Frodo’s heart. Elrond reached for a patch of fabric that lay beside the knives and bathed the area of the wound with it. Then, placing the fabric patch back, he took up a thin knife and examined it in the firelight. It was very sharp, Sam could see, for no hint of reflection came from its razor edge. Elrond turned and with barely a pause for Sam to draw his breath, pressed the blade firmly into Frodo’s pale shoulder.

The effect on Frodo was instantaneous. Elrond must have given the hobbit back some of his strength for suddenly he screamed in agony and jerked. “Hold him!” Elrond cried as the tiny body quivered and twitched. Sam was beside himself in terror.

“He can **feel** that!” The other hobbit screamed. “Mercy, my lord! Can’t you do something for the pain?!?!”

Elrond grimaced. “Be still!” he hissed, though whether the command was directed to him or to Frodo, Sam could not guess. “Only his body can feel it. His mind has flown. He will have no memory of this.” Elrond continued to cut a deep line through the tiny scar. Dark, thick blood welled up from the gash and ran sluggishly down Frodo’s arm. It was not the color or consistency of normal blood but was more like a vile liquor that swelled and heaved from some dark abyss. Even Elrond seemed loath to touch it. Another elf behind them handed the healer a piece of cloth and he began wiping it away as he continued to cut. Deeper and deeper he scored the line, pushing further into the tissues of Frodo’s shoulder. More blood surged into the wound and Elrond needed another cloth and another. It was far more blood than the wound had even generated when newly got. Sam felt sick and terribly frightened.

Frodo was breathing in rapid, trembling gasps. His body twitched weakly and his eyes, half opened, were rolling back into his head till only the whites showed. His mouth gaped and his lips quivered though the only sounds he could make were shaking, painfully indrawn breaths. The elf who held his head smoothed back his curls and stroked his forehead, now shiny with cold sweat. Frodo was in agony and beyond; none who watched could doubt that. Elrond, cut deeper, hoping by speed to reduce the amount of torment the hobbit was suffering.

When the cut was as deep as the length of the blade, Elrond quickly put it down and pushed his slim fingered hand into the wound. This act brought another scream from Frodo, though it was weaker than the first and thereby even more pitiful. New blood spilled from the wound and pooled darkly under Frodo’s armpit as Elrond pushed mercilessly into it. The elf’s features were set with grim determination as he quickly searched the torn flesh. Frodo’s gasping cries became fainter and a deep rattle began in his chest. The second elf at his side looked down, alarmed at the sound, and clutched at the hobbit’s chest with the hand that lay over his heart. He closed his eyes and began murmuring a song under his breath. Elrond continued to probe, but it was growing obvious that whatever he sought could not be found. The second elf opened his eyes and ended his song.

“My lord,” he said with a calmness that astounded Sam. “He cannot bear it. We are losing him.”

Sam felt giddy. He had watched this torture with astonished revulsion but he could stand it no longer. It was too much. He cried out and had to grasp the table to keep from falling. “Please, STOP!” he screamed. “You are killing him!”

Elrond wrenched his hand free of the accursed wound and quickly laid both his, the one still covered with Frodo’s blood, over the hand of the other elf on the hobbit’s chest. Together the two healers closed their eyes and began their soft song again, their lilting voices low and commanding. The glow returned, now more palpably real than before, over Frodo’s heart. Tense silence filled the room as even the hobbit’s rattling breaths had ceased. Sam still clutched the table’s edge afraid to move. Had they lost him? Sam could see no sign that his master was breathing, and the ashen hue was again on his face and limbs. Dark blood pooled on the sheets and was smeared across Frodo’s body contrasting starkly with his pallor, though it no longer pulsed from the wound. As the long moments stretched on, Sam began to shake. They had failed, surely. Why else would the silence linger on? New tears filled Sam’s eyes. After all that torment, to lose his master in such agony! It was more than his heart could bear and he choked on his sobs.

The glow over Frodo’s chest blossomed and became a light in its own right, casting shadows of bright gold on the hobbit’s still face. Warmth came from that light, and power, and as the song lifted and became stronger, so did the light. Sam dashed the tears from his eyes so that his vision could remain clear. Whatever had happened, the elves had not given up hope, and Sam resolved not to either, not yet at least. The song stretched on, now rising and now falling till it’s rhythm resembled the strong, firm beating of a heart. At long last, Sam saw his master move. Frodo opened his mouth wider and drew in an aching breath as of one who had just emerged from deep water. Then he breathed out with a sigh and sank even deeper into the pillows, but his breath, once returned, continued slowly and evenly. They had brought him back. Sam found himself still trembling but the despair that had gripped him was easing. His master was breathing again, and now, so could he.

The song Elrond and the second elf had sung faded and the light of their hands sank to glow brightly, deep within Frodo’s chest. There it lingered for a while, growing fainter, but spreading its warmth through his body. His color brightened though he was still paler than he should have been, but the dark circles under his eyes looked even deeper than before. When the last note was but a whisper, Elrond motioned to another of the waiting elves and a basin of steaming water was brought to him. He dipped his hands into it and rinsed Frodo’s dark blood from them. Next, he dipped a cloth into the basin and began cleaning the reopened wound, wiping the spilled blood from the small arm and chest. Bandages were brought to him then and he bound Frodo’s shoulder with soft pads of cloth.

“I will not close this wound yet.” he said, glancing sidelong at Sam as he worked. “Not until I am certain nothing remains within. Though I found it not this time, that for which I seek may have burrowed deeper, searching out your master’s heart. I cannot risk another examination until he has grown stronger. We were hard pressed to retrieve him just now – I dare not stress him again too soon – and…” he smiled ruefully. “We will need to recover the strength we have given him.” The elf lord tied a small knot in the bandages and stood carefully. It was apparent then that the trial had not left Elrond unmarked, for he needed to steady himself against the bed for a moment. “My people will bathe him and dress him, if you wish, or if you would rather, you may care for him yourself. We will provide you with all that you need.”

Sam was startled out of his shocked silence as he realized some response was expected. He cleared his throat. “I’ll care for him, my lord, though I’d not turn down some help. I’m a mite shaken up by all this myself, if you take my meaning, sir.” Elrond’s smile was warm and approving. He gestured to another of his aides and basins and sponges were brought forth. Clean linens and a tunic of fine silk were placed on the bed stand and many warm, fluffy towels laid beside them. Sam rolled up his sleeves and prepared to work. Now that the excitement was over, and the elf lord had left Sam found he was shaking almost uncontrollably. _And they’ll want to do that to him again?!_ He thought. _I don’t think I could bear it a second time. And what if they can’t bring him back again?_ He shivered. _No, I’ll not think of it. Mr. Frodo needs me now and that’s where my mind ought to be._ He stepped up to the bed and picked up a flannel from the pile of linens.

They washed Frodo as best they could. A tub would have served better, but Sam agreed that the open wound could not be immersed in water. One of the elves placed a basin under Frodo’s head and gently washed his hair while Sam attended to the rest of him. Another elf helped dry Frodo and lifted him, bundled warmly in the towels, while several others who had remained changed the linens. When Frodo was finally clean, warm, dry and dressed, settled on clean sheets and under a warm quilt, Sam sank wearily into a chair.

“Worst night of my life!” he sighed. “If I live a hundred years, I’ll never see another I’ll like to forget more!” He yawned and an elf, smiling knowingly, laid a blanket across his lap. Sam closed his eyes and was asleep before the door closed on the last of them departing.


	4. Comfort and Conflict

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Frodo's fall at the ford to his waking at Rivendell - the story Tolkien only hinted at...

The quiet sound of the door being opened again woke Sam from his dreaming.  Sunlight was just beginning to touch the tips of the Misty Mountains far to the east and had yet to reach the rim of the steep sided valley of Rivendell.  Dim light filled the room from the vast open windows and the sound of dancing water met his ears.  He looked up, rubbing sleep from his eyes and realizing he was half fallen out of the chair.  His back moaned in protest and he felt worse than he had after any of the nights he’d slept in the wilds.  He looked about and noticed Bilbo had crept in holding a tray upon which a warm breakfast was laid.  Oatmeal and cakes, butter and strawberries, tea and a large glass of milk were crowded on its surface.  He also had a bowl of some thin broth that Sam surmised was for his master.  He wondered if they would be able to feed it to him. 

 “Good morning, Mr. Bilbo.” he said softly, not wishing to either startle the old hobbit or disturb his master.

 “And you are up too, Sam!”  Bilbo’s worried expression faded into a smile for a moment and he looked genuinely glad to see him.  “I’ve just brought a few things for you both.  The elves would have gotten to it, but I wanted to come in and see how my lad was doing.”  He set the tray on the table, right where the surgical tools had been set the night before, and bent to look closely at Frodo.  Sam shook his head, trying to get the unwelcome images of the previous evening’s activities out of it, and stood stiffly. 

 “Well, either I was tireder than I felt, or he slept a deal better than he has in a fortnight.  The elves must have done some good for him.”  Sam decided it was probably not the best idea to go into details of what ‘good’ for both their sakes.  He most certainly wished to forget them.  He shuffled over to the bed behind where Bilbo stood and looked over his shoulder. 

 Bilbo had Frodo’s cheek cupped in his hand and was gently stroking it with his thumb.  At first, Sam thought Frodo completely unresponsive, but then he saw the pale brow crease ever so slightly and Frodo leaned into the caress as if it comforted him.  Bilbo said nothing but continued to stroke the wan cheek, a tender and joyous smile blossoming on his face.  Sam, too, was moved to joy and his eyes watered with the beginnings of tears.  Though his master was still unconscious, he seemed to know his uncle’s touch and yearned towards it as a child reaching for the loving arms of a parent.  Sam wiped his eyes and fell back, leaving the two of them alone together, then eased himself silently out the door.  

 When he’d found the washroom, and cleaned himself up for breakfast, Sam returned to find Frodo propped up on several pillows and Bilbo sitting beside him carefully ladling broth into his mouth.  It was a messy business, for Frodo had not returned to consciousness, but Bilbo was patient.  He had one hand on Frodo’s jaw and would pull it down to tip a spoonful of the liquid in, and then push it up so that the broth slid back in his throat and Frodo could swallow it.  Bilbo had draped one of the towels from the night before around his neck to keep the inevitable spills from dampening the sheets and he talked as he worked, speaking to Frodo as if the other hobbit were awake and could answer him.  Sam crept over to the tray, picked up the plate of cakes and the butter and hunkered down in the chair he had slept in to eat them. 

 “There, that’s a good lad…” Bilbo cooed softly.  “You take this all and you’ll be up and about in no time.  Lord Elrond put things in it to help heal you.  Strong elvish medicine – nothing better in the world, I’d say.”  He took a corner of the towel and wiped at a bit of broth that fell from Frodo’s lax lips.  “I haven’t done this for you in years, my boy.” he continued.  “Do you remember just after you came to live with me and you were so sick?  I’d never cared for a young one before and I was so terribly frightened I would lose you, but we managed, you and I.  Got you back on your feet.”  He paused and stroked Frodo’s cheek again.  “Did I ever tell you,” he said in a tender whisper.  “How happy it made me to see you hale and whole again?”  He looked so lovingly upon Frodo’s face that it almost broke Sam’s heart.  “If any had come from Buckland after that to claim you back, I’d have fought ten Smaugs to keep you….” The old hobbit’s voice was growing husky, but he straightened, cleared his throat and collected himself.  “Now, let’s see if we can finish this, shall we?” 

 Sam ate in silence, but managed to consume cakes, oatmeal, berries and tea before even thinking that Bilbo might have brought some of the meal for himself.  He apologized profusely; blushing beet red to the collar, but Bilbo just laughed and assured him that he was welcomed to whatever he could eat (and that was a great deal considering the past days of hardship and deprivation).  Sam was still flustered, but drank down the glass of milk greedily and wiped his mouth on his cuff. 

 “Where are Mr. Merry and Master Pippin?” he asked at last putting the empty dishes back on the tray.  Bilbo laughed again. 

 “They were still abed, when I looked.  Though my guess is they’ve found the kitchens by now and are making themselves known to the elves who work there.  Though I’m certain we’ll see them presently looking in on young Frodo here.”  He paused, smiling happily, seemingly delighted to be in the company of old friends and kin again.  Then Sam noticed a queer gleam beginning in his eye.  “You know, Sam, my lad,” the old hobbit said strangely.  “I left a small trinket in Frodo’s care – a very plain gold ring.  I thought Frodo would be bringing it with him, but I can’t seem to find it.  It seems the elves have taken it away.”  

 The tone of Bilbo’s voice remained light, but Sam felt the chill as if the wind had suddenly stolen into the room.  “What do you say?” he asked, and would have opened the wooden box to look, but some sense warned him that that would be the exactly wrong thing to do.  Bilbo’s face had changed.  No longer was he the kindly old gentle hobbit, caring deeply for his stricken heir, but a hungry, craven thing, desperately seeking what he had thought was already at hand.  “Well, Mr. Bilbo,” Sam answered quietly trying to keep his own voice carefully neutral.  “After the troubles we’ve had, maybe that’s the best thing for it, so to speak?  Even Mr. Frodo thought it was better left to higher folk, if you take my meaning, sir.” 

 Bilbo scrutinized him, seeming to wonder at how much Sam had been told or guessed but after a moment he sighed and the fit seemed to have passed.  “Yes, yes, of course, you are right.  I guess I just wanted to see the thing again, after all these years.”  He looked as if he would ask another question, but then shook his head, obviously deciding against it.  Sam almost breathed an audible sigh of relief.  He had always considered himself to be a truthful sort.  If Mr. Bilbo had asked outright, he didn’t think he could lie, but something told him that he dared not tell his old master the ring lay not two feet from him.  If Bilbo thought it was in the hands of the elves, so much the better.  


	5. Despair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Frodo's fall at the ford to his waking at Rivendell - the story Tolkien only hinted at...

Merry and Pippin arrived well after the sun had risen and behind them walked Gandalf leaning wearily on his staff.  The hobbits had come in gaily but upon seeing Frodo still unconscious and pale, their merriment cooled.  Bilbo also added to the chill by favoring Gandalf with an accusing stare over the body of his nephew.  Gandalf met his gaze evenly and it was Bilbo who looked away first.  The hobbit then busied himself with feeding Frodo the last of his broth as if the exchange had not even happened.  Gandalf studied him for a long moment with just a touch of sad pity in his eyes.  He took a chair from near the open windows and set it on the opposite side of the bed from Sam’s. 

 “He doesn’t look much better yet, Mr. Gandalf, sir.” Pippin observed, his bright face pinching again in worry.  “I thought Strider said they would be able to cure him here?” 

 “They **may** be able to cure him,” the old wizard corrected.  “But keep a steadfast heart!  He has not succumbed yet and there is hope while he remains unconquered.  There is strength in this valley and in the people in it.  Strength and knowledge.  If his wound is curable, he will find that cure here more readily than in any other place.” 

 “Seems to me if I’d been allowed to go back to do as I wished years ago,” Bilbo interjected.  “My Frodo lad would not have been wounded in the first place.”  Though he sounded conversational, it was obvious to the other hobbits that this was a discussion he and Gandalf had had before.  The old wizard eyed him, tolerantly.  

 “No, perhaps not, but who can say what might have happened to you?  The ring has passed on, Bilbo.  It would do no good to you or to others, if you tried to meddle with it again.  Dire as Frodo’s condition is, if you had carried it I fear your fate would have been even darker.”  He pulled out his long stemmed pipe and filled it.  “If you had gone back, I fear the ring would now be in the hands of the enemy and Frodo would be mourning by your bedside – or more likely, graveside.”  Bilbo flashed a dark look at the wizard and Gandalf returned it with cool tolerance.  “Don’t scowl so, Bilbo.  These young folk know of the ring.  They’ve traveled with Frodo these many weeks, though I dare say, they might have known of it long before that.”  His gaze drifted over the other hobbits in the room and Sam blushed in embarrassment.  “There is a greater purpose at work here.  You’ve played your part, my friend, and well, but it is over now.  Let it go.  This was Frodo’s part and nothing you could have done could have prevented it.” 

 “But it hurts me to see him so, Gandalf!”  Bilbo said with frustration and anger.  “I know you have said I had no choice in the matter, but I can’t help feeling if only I had done something differently….” He stood, shaking his head, and gathered up the plates and bowls, clustering them on the empty tray.  Then, looking sadly down at the still face of his heir, he stooped and kissed Frodo’s brow.  The sick hobbit stirred and fretted weakly, his eyes rolling under half closed lids.  “At least he’s no longer so very cold.”  Bilbo smiled sorrowfully.  “And he knew me this morning, you know?  I really think he recognized me.”  His voice, heavy with guilt, was thick in his throat.  He took the towel from around Frodo’s neck and handed it to Sam.  “There you go Sam, be a good lad and carry these things down to the kitchen for me.  All this excitement has worn me out and I must find a quiet place to sit and think.”  Gandalf watched him shuffle tiredly from the room, his dark eyes peering thoughtfully from beneath his thick eyebrows.  

 After Bilbo had gone, Merry turned and looked Gandalf squarely in the eye.  “What’s all this about gravesides and mourning?”  There was alarm in his voice when he addressed the wizard.  “You’d best give us the straight talk, Mr. Gandalf.  Yes, we did know something of all this ring business before, but what’s not what’s important to me right now.  The way you were talking didn’t seem to hold out much hope for Frodo.  Is there naught even these great folk can do?  We’re his kin, we have the right to know.”  

 Smoke wreathed about Gandalf’s head as he sat in silence studying the little hobbits before him.  He did not wish to share the fear that was in his heart, the fear that all they now did was in vain.  Frodo was dear to him, as dear as Bilbo was, but he knew the severity of the malady that lay upon him.  Elrond’s own wife, Celebraín, daughter of Celeborn, and a strong elven lady, had barely survived a similar wound, and though Elrond had cured her, she had never been the same afterwards.  The pain and shadow that continued to hound her had driven her to seek healing in the West, far across the sea.  Frodo did not have that option, even if he could be healed now, which Gandalf doubted.  

 “There may be something that can be done,” he said aloud, hoping to somehow gently prepare them.  “Elrond is a great lord, very skilled in healing and he has cured this type of wound before.  However, I shall not lie to you.  Frodo’s condition is very grave.  He has already borne this wound longer than any would have thought possible.  I do not know how much more time he has or what his fate may yet be.”  

 Sam watched his master in silence.  The sinking realization was beginning to dawn on him that Gandalf didn’t think Frodo was going to live.  His heart tightened painfully and his pulse thudded heavily in his ears.  After all they had gone through to get him here, all his master had endured - to have it all be in vain...?  He shook his head in frantic denial.  No!  Frodo’s color was improving – only his arm and shoulder were still pale and cold – and he had stirred this morning, and eaten.  Surely those were good signs?  He stepped to the bed, eased out the pillows that had propped him up for breakfast, and settled Frodo’s unresisting body back.  He was warm and his breathing easier than it had for a long time.  He brushed away the dark curls and lifted one eyelid to peer into the bright blue eye beneath it.  No recognition stared back at him from the glassy depths.  Frodo was still senseless and now that Sam touched his skin, he wondered if perhaps he wasn’t a little too warm?  Or perhaps he had become so used to his master’s icy cold that a normal temperature seemed too warm?  He smoothed the coverlet down around his master.  

 “Since you lot already know where the kitchens are in this here place, would you take the tray back?  I…I’d not like to leave him if I can help it,” he said.  Pippin nodded. 

 “I’ll take them,” he said in his small voice.  “I didn’t have much of an appetite this morning, and though I still don’t feel much like eating, I don’t feel much use here either.  Perhaps a spot of tea would do me good.”  He picked up the tray and towel and shuffled off towards the door. 

 “They’ll give you a room, Sam,” suggested Merry.  “If you’ve been up all night long, you could probably use the rest.  And I’ll be here and I am sure Bilbo will be back after he’s had his ‘think’…” 

 “I would not suggest you leave Bilbo alone to watch over him,” Gandalf interrupted carefully.  “One other should always be here with him if he wishes to stay by Frodo’s bedside.”  The other two hobbits looked at him and Sam nodded in agreement. 

 “I was just going to say something very like that, Mr. Gandalf, sir.”  He frowned.  “It was the queerest thing.  I’d left for just a moment to wash up this morning and when I come back, Mr. Bilbo had this look in his eye.  I don’t rightly know what he’d done, but he says to me, ‘Sam, those elves have taken my ring!’ like he’d just been searching for it!  I didn’t like the sound of that.  I didn’t know what he’d do if he saw the thing again, and I didn’t want to find out neither so I didn’t tell him where it was.” 

 “Good.”  Gandalf shifted uncomfortably in his chair.  “Bilbo is a true friend and brave, and he loves Frodo very much, but where the ring is concerned, he shouldn’t be trusted.  He kept it for far too long for it to hold no sway over him.  Though I doubt he could do any real harm, he would take it back if he got the chance – and he would think to himself he was merely saving Frodo from trouble – but it would not be his own will he was answering.”  The wizard nodded approvingly, his eyes resting on the hobbit.  “You did well, Samwise.  Best to leave it where it lies.”  Sam felt his cheeks grow warm from the unexpected praise.  

 “But why don’t the elves take it?” Merry asked.  “Isn’t that why we’ve come all this way?  To give it to those who know better?” 

 Gandalf frowned.  “The ring is Frodo’s until his fate is decided or another bearer is found.  While he still lives we are all much safer if it stays in his possession but out of sight and under the guard of his most faithful companions.”  Then he gave Sam a reassuring smile.  


	6. Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Frodo's fall at the ford to his waking at Rivendell - the story Tolkien only hinted at...

The three of them stayed by Frodo’s sickbed as the morning wore on.  Near midday, Elrond returned to examine his patient.  He came alone and still seemed weary from his trials of the night before.  His timeless face was worn and troubled and when his eyes met Gandalf’s a silent understanding seemed to pass between them.  He sat beside Frodo on the bed and touched the hobbit’s brow.  Frodo flinched and he gave a small gasp, his body perhaps remembering the touch from the previous night’s torments, but he did not waken.  His pale lips moved soundlessly and he turned his head as if to avoid Elrond’s hand, but he was too weak to evade it.  Finally he moaned and gave in, but his body continued to tremble. 

 “Fever…” the elf sighed softly after he had examined him and checked the bandages.  Sam shot Merry an alarmed glance.  He’d wondered as much earlier but his fear had made him dismiss the thought.  “His will has flown but his body fights on,” Elrond continued, his voice tinged with surprised admiration  “I am amazed at his strength.” 

 “But, sir!” Sam cried desperately.  “I thought his ‘will’ was the only thing keepin’ him from becoming like those black riders?”  He jumped up and cast his eyes frantically towards his master.  “Mr. Strider said if he weren’t resisting anymore, he’d become like them only weaker and that was the only thing keeping him from it!” 

 Elrond nodded.  “My foster-son spoke truly but I am afraid Frodo’s strong will was at last overcome at the ford.  He had kept the evil at bay, but once he fell, the shard of the blade that lies within him was no longer held back and was able to work its evil course towards his heart.  If you had been delayed but a few more hours in reaching us, that splinter would have had time to reach it and he would have succumbed.”  The elf grasped Sam’s shoulder, as he quavered with horror again.  “Fear not, my brave friend!  Though I could not find it, I do not believe it has yet pierced your master’s heart.  His will may be gone but we now protect him with light and the power of my people.  For a time, he is safe.”  

 “And how long is that?” Merry asked, nearly as shaken as Sam was.  “How long can he be like this and live?” 

 Elrond distant grey eyes warmed with sad compassion but Merry felt less than comforted.  “Not long, I am afraid,” the elf sighed, “but do not despair.  I have called upon the greatest healers of my house and when they have come and I have recovered my strength, we will search for the shard again.”  He glanced quickly at Sam who had stiffened at this.  “Be not afraid, Samwise.  I will not risk him so again.  I learned much from last night.  Our time was short and I needed to act as quickly as I dared.  I could not ease his pain more for fear it would drive him closer to the shadow, but I have some reprieve now and there are ways we can prepare and support him if there are enough of us to hold back the shadow.”  

 Sam shivered and looked down at the sleeping face of his master.  A fine beading of sweat had been building across his nose and cheeks.  Under it laid the faintest hint of rosy hue – but it was not the flush of health that caused it– Sam saw that now – it was the heat of the growing fever.  He blew his nose on his kerchief and wiped his eyes then sat down heavily in the chair that was becoming like a second home to him.  He shuddered.  He did not want to go through another night like the one just past, but it seemed there was nothing else to be done.  Frodo moaned softly and he looked up again.  His master was making small sounds like snatches of words, but he was too weak to fully utter them.  His head moved from side to side slowly and with his good arm, he appeared to be trying to brush something away from his face.  He was becoming delirious.  One more in the long list of torments for his master.  Sam needed to blow his nose again. 

 “And what of this fever of his?” he asked, trying desperately to collect himself.  “Should we not give him something for it?  My old gaffer had some remedies for fever he swore by.  I could make some of them if you like.”  That was at least something he could do other than sitting in Frodo’s room and watching his master slowly fade. 

 Elrond actually smiled at that.  “We are also skilled at treating fevers, and I will cure it if it becomes much worse, but I think we should let it go for a while.  It counters the terrible cold of the morgul’s touch and keeps it in check.  If he becomes too hot, or seems too troubled, send for me and I will cool him.” 

 “But is there naught can we DO?”  Merry’s plaintive question voiced Sam’s feelings exactly.  He felt so helpless.  “This waiting and standing about like baggage is enough to drive me mad!  There must be something we can do for him?” 

 Gandalf blew a cloud from his pipe.  The whisp of blue smoke curled into the still autumn air and hung about the wizard’s head.  “You can take care of yourselves,” he answered for Elrond. “And Sam getting a real rest might be a good way to start.  Meriadoc, why don’t you take him along to the room that was prepared for you?”  Sam opened his mouth to protest but the looks the wizard and elf gave him shushed him.  “It will be all right.”  Gandalf assured him.  “I will be here by his side as long as I need be.  Rest.  These nights will be long and dark and Frodo will need you alert and able to care for him, not sliding out of your chair by morning.”  Sam started at that, but it made him begin to feel more trust for these big folk.  They did care, and really were trying to do their best for his master, although after the previous night’s activities, he had wondered about that.  The fact that they had observed enough to know he was sleeping in his chair let him know that he was not so totally alone in this great house and that gave him a bit of comfort.  He yawned in spite of himself and Elrond laughed.  It was a warm, merry sound, despite the circumstances. 

 “Your body agrees even if you do not, little one.  Take Gandalf’s advice and mine.  Your master is cared for and since you are also my guest, I will care for you also.  Come.” 

 And so Sam was led through the halls of the last homey house in Rivendell and for the first time since arriving, was able to look about him in wonder.  It was a grand hall, carved and embellished with mysterious symbols that floated and wove about the delicate architecture.  It was beautiful but to Sam’s mind, not as inherently elvish as the wooded hall where he had feasted with Gildor.  It was warmer and less glorious somehow, but closer and more comforting to his hobbit heart.  He felt he could lie in this house for a lifetime and know nothing but peace in it’s wooded halls.  If only his present errand had not been so grim, he might have wished it.  _But this is no fit place for the likes of me,_ he thought.  _It’s too fine!  I’d just be getting comfortable and then they’d find me out and I’d be tossed out on my ear!_   He allowed himself a little smile at the image before a yawn caught him.  A bit of sleep in a real bed did sound tempting, and he had the distinct feeling that things were going to get worse for his master long before they got better.  He thought he should take his rest while he still could. 


	7. Resolve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Frodo's fall at the ford to his waking at Rivendell - the story Tolkien only hinted at...

_Late  
afternoon, October the 21st_ ,  
Bilbo had written in his diary but he was truly afraid to write anything  
further.  The morning had shaken him  
badly.  Frodo had been so… still.   
Even as ill as he had ever seen him, the boy had never been so listless,  
so _motionless_ – it was as if the life-force were truly being drained  
from him into the dark well of his wound.  Bilbo  
tried to put forth a brave front but his terror was an icy knot in his stomach.   
They were going to lose him.  Gandalf  
thought so, though he had not said it.  The wizard had gotten very close and in his later years, but  
he had always seemed in possession of some secret knowledge, some security that  
gave him confidence in every situation.  He  
showed no such confidence this time, and that fact more than any other filled  
the old hobbit with cold dread.  Bilbo  
felt as if events were spinning him headlong towards a precipice and nothing he  
could do or say would stop him from plummeting over the edge.  
  


  


 He  
hobbled along the corridor lit dimly by the afternoon light.   
Slanting rays of the sun rarely entered here.  The high walls of the valley cut them off before they could  
fill these rooms with light, but there were usually torches to see by, blazing  
merrily in the intricately carved sconces.   
They would be lit soon, Bilbo suspected.  He found the room where Frodo was being cared for and  
hesitated.  He could hear murmuring,  
a long missed but lovingly familiar voice weakly raised.   
Bilbo’s heart leapt and he opened the great door quickly.  
  


  


 Gandalf  
was there, sitting on the bed, his back towards the door when Bilbo entered.   
He held Frodo’s right hand and was gently wiping the hobbit’s brow.   
The bed was a shambles.  Frodo  
had thrown the coverlet back and the sheets lay twisted in ropes and knots about  
him.  His bare feet kicked and he  
arched his back but neither motion had much strength in it.   
His limbs, so pale before, were mottled with the blotchy redness of  
fever, all but the left arm, which still lay pale and unmoving by his side.   
Frodo called out, but the words were garbled, slurred.   
It was as if his lips would not cooperate.   
Bilbo crept forward and Gandalf spared a swift look back to him, but  
continued mopping Frodo’s face.    
  


  


 “He has a  
fever.”  The wizard explained with  
as much tenderness as he could muster.  “To  
be expected, I suppose, after all he has been through.”   
  
  


  


 Bilbo came  
forward and took the damp cloth from Gandalf’s hand.   
The two looked at one another for a brief second.   
All the pain of the world seemed mirrored in the old wizard’s eyes and  
Bilbo knew his own must look very like it.   
He gripped the cloth tightly as the surge of grief filled him.   
Not yet.  He would not give  
up while this beloved child still lived.  He  
must find enough hope from somewhere to keep going.   
His jaw set grimly and he touched Frodo’s cheek with the cool cloth.  
  


  


 “Shhhhhhh…”   
He whispered leaning close to the younger hobbit’s fevered face.   
“It’s your old Bilbo, my lad, come to see his bright one.   
Be easy.  I’ll not leave  
you now.”    
  


  


 Frodo’s  
eyes rolled beneath half closed lids, but he stilled as if to listen to  
Bilbo’s voice.  A sigh escaped his  
lips and the arch left his back as he settled limply onto the pillow.   
Bilbo smiled through his tears.  
  


  


 “That’s  
right!  You know your old Bilbo,  
don’t you lad?  Ah, my sweet  
boy…”  His voice shook till he could say no more but still he stood  
beside the bed tenderly stroking the fevered face.  Gandalf held forth a bowl fresh mint water and Bilbo dipped  
the cloth into it, ringing it out and wiping it ever so gently across Frodo’s  
brow, cheek and neck.  It cooled him  
and eased his frantic tossing till, finally, his breathing steadied and he  
slept.  Bilbo straightened, his back  
ached and his old knees felt stiff as old tree trunks.   
  
  


  


“There is  
something to be said for a loving touch.” Gandalf took back the cloth and laid  
it and the bowl aside.  “Thank  
you, Bilbo.”  
  


  


 The  
older hobbit stepped back and settled wearily into Sam’s chair.  “If only that is all it would take to bring him back to  
us.”  He looked up at the wizard.   
“Whatever am I going to do, Gandalf?   
I can’t lose him.  He’s all I have.”  His  
voice sounded small and pitiful and Gandalf wished fervently that he had more  
comfort to give.  They sat in  
silence for a long time, each studying Frodo’s now peaceful face.   
At last Bilbo spoke again.  “You  
know, I’d never wanted children.”  He  
said.  “But the older I got, the  
more I began to realize how much I needed to feel some sense of continuation –  
that someone would be there after me…” He sighed.   
“I guess it finally sunk into my thick head that I wasn’t going to  
live forever.  I took him on as my heir because I was fond of him, and  
thought he deserved more than the hand he had been dealt…”  His lip quivered and he looked again on the brink of tears.   
“But I never realized how much I would come to love him.”   
  
  


  


 “You chose  
very wisely, my friend,” Gandalf answered kindly.   
“He has talked in his fever, and I have delved somewhat deeper into his  
memory.  He loves you too.   
More than I think he realizes.”  At  
that, Bilbo did smile, though it did not stem his tears.   
“And of all the forces of this world,” Gandalf continued softly.   
“Love is probably the most powerful and unpredictable.   
I would not discount its effects even when all seems lost.”   
  
  


  


 Bilbo  
nodded, wiping at his eyes and straightening his back.   
“Well, it certainly crept up upon me unwary, but I’d not change  
that.”  The two then sat silently  
again for a long moment.  At last  
Bilbo collected himself and stretched.  “I’ve  
had my think,” he said quietly.  “Though  
you probably know it was more of a nap than a think, but I’ve worked some  
things out, I believe.”  
  


  


 “Oh?  
“ Gandalf asked.  
  


  


Bilbo pulled  
at his waistcoat and fingered a brass button idly.   
“Yes, it’s about this ring.  I  
thought you might be interested in what I’ve decided.”  
  


  


 “Yes,  
indeed, I am.”  
  


  


 Bilbo  
looked uncomfortable, but his eyes then came to rest on Frodo’s still face and  
that seemed to give him some resolve.  “You  
know, I always thought of my ring as a trinket, a plaything,” he began with  
note of wonder in his voice.  “I  
guess some part of me knew it must be important, but I never saw it as a burden.   
I suppose that was why I couldn’t understand why you insisted I pass it  
on.  At the time, I didn’t realize  
the great responsibility that lay with keeping it.   
But there it is, I suppose.  Though  
I did it almost without thinking, I took on that responsibility when I picked it  
up in Gollum’s cave.”  He paused  
again, gathering his thoughts.  “And  
when I made Frodo my heir, I gave him not only a home and a fortune, but  
responsibility too.  Responsibility  
to bear my ring, even though it lead to this…” his voice trailed off again  
sadly.  “That is what it means to be an heir, I suppose.   
You get the good and the bad baggage when the old can no longer take it,  
and, well,…I guess I am coming to my point.”   
He eyed Gandalf thoughtfully.  “It’s  
not been an easy thing for me to admit, but I am finally really feeling my age  
– both my body and mind.  I forget  
things, little things mostly, but that troubles me and I’ve a much harder time  
getting up in the morning than I used to.  I  
can’t even imagine how I’d be now after a night camped out on the ground!   
They’d probably have to dig a hole beside me next morning and roll me  
into it!”  He grinned at the  
little joke, and after a second, so did Gandalf.   
“Yes, I am too old and feeble to have gone on the journey my boy has  
and I know that.  It is the  
responsible part of me that says, the ring has to belong to Frodo now – I’m  
too old to bear the burden any more – for I know now it is just that… a  
burden and responsibility.  I bore  
it, and now he must bear it… but I must ask one favor of you Gandalf?”  
  


  


 The  
old wizard had been listening with respectful silence and he looked up at Bilbo  
then with a warmth and pride in his eyes that Bilbo was heartened to see.   
“If I can grant it.  What  
is it you wish?”  
  


  


 “Don’t  
let him bear this burden any longer than he must!” Bilbo said fervently.   
“If you’ll not take it, give it to some great warrior or elf lord to  
carry!  This thing is too great and  
terrible for any humble hobbit – and it is too much for my Frodo!   
Please find someone else to bear it, Gandalf, you must!”  
  


  


 Gandalf  
frowned sadly.  “You are right,  
Bilbo.  The ring is a far greater  
burden than anyone should be made to bear.   
But how could we choose another bearer?   
Fate is impartial and cannot be swayed by lust of the thing – and fate  
chose you, and thereby your heir, Frodo.  It  
was a good choice, in my opinion.  You  
kept it safe and hidden for 60 years, as did Frodo after you.  You call yourselves humble, but perhaps your humility was  
what allowed you, of all people, to hold it and not be corrupted utterly?   
I cannot say, but I trust that fate will continue to guide us.   
Frodo was chosen, and Frodo should remain the bearer until such time as  
he can no longer bear the thing.”  
  


  


  _Until he can  
no longer bear it…_   
Bilbo felt the chill those words portended and shuddered.   
“You sound like an elf, Gandalf.” he said disapprovingly.   
“You answer my request by saying both no and yes.”   
He sighed.  “If you may not  
promise to take the ring away, can you at least promise that Frodo will not bear  
this burden alone?  Can you not stay  
with him and protect him as you had promised me you would?”  
  


  


 The  
words were meant to sting and the old wizard did allow a flash of hurt to cross  
his face.  “That I will do,” he  
said solemnly.  “As long as I am  
able to do it.  I can promise  
that.”    
  


  


 Bilbo at  
last felt satisfied and settled back in the comfortable chair.  He sighed and his eyes drifted over the still form of his  
nephew lying peacefully asleep on his bed.   
All this discussion and thinking had filled his head and taxed him.   
He was glad to have it out in the open, discussed and at least somewhat  
resolved at last.  He relaxed and let the stillness of the room and the calming  
presence of the wizard settle in his limbs.   
He began to feel sleepy and unguarded.   
  
  


  


 “Gandalf?”  
he asked drowsily.  “Do you know  
where the ring is?  I know you say  
Frodo is still the bearer, but looked for it before and didn’t find it on him.   
Perhaps the elves have already taken it away?”  
  


  


 The  
stiffness and sorrow in Gandalf’s reply was lost on the drowsy hobbit.   
Bilbo was not speaking from his own thoughts, but those of the ring  
obsession that still had some hold on him even so many years after he had  
relinquished the thing.  Comfortable and on the brink of sleep, he had not noticed how  
odd his request sounded in light of the previous conversation.   
  
  


  


 “No  
Bilbo,” Gandalf said truthfully.  “I  
do not know where the ring is held.  Only  
that it is kept safe and those who do know where it is also know they keep that  
knowledge in stewardship and that the ring remains Frodo’s.”    
  


  


 “Ah, just  
as well then,” Bilbo mumbled and his head fell forward onto his breast and he  
slept.  
  



	8. Eavesdropping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Frodo's fall at the ford to his waking at Rivendell - the story Tolkien only hinted at...

Sam was very glad he had slept, for the night was a sore trial on his heart and body.  He had to report to Elrond every hour on Frodo’s condition, when the elf wasn’t there himself, and bring word and instruction back to Gandalf who also stayed with Frodo that night.  Frodo’s fever rose, though not alarmingly, and Elrond was not yet prepared to bring it down.  The fever, he explained, was the body’s own defense against the poisons of the wound and it was a defense that the dark arts of Mordor could not combat.  Elvish craft, however powerful, was something the shard of the Morgul knife had been created to defy and Elrond feared by using it wantonly, he would only hasten Frodo’s end. 

 So they combated the fever the way Sam knew – with herbs, willow bark tea, cool cloths and sponge baths of scented water.  Frodo was restless and though he did not wake, he tossed and cried out in dark dreams.  His shoulder also pained him miserably and whenever Sam would brush up against it or Frodo would roll onto it in his thrashing, he would scream in agony.  Long into the night, Frodo tossed and raved, but no matter the comforts that Elrond, Gandalf or Sam could devise, it seemed the hobbit would find no peace until Sam, in desperation, took his master’s cold left hand in his and held it.  He didn’t think Frodo could feel his touch – indeed, the hand felt stiff and so cold that it did not seem possible to be part of a living body - but the gentle stroking and warmth of Sam’s hand did calm him.  Sam pulled his chair to the very side of the bed and sat long into the night merely holding Frodo’s hand and caressing it.  At last, comforted by this simple act, Frodo slept.  

 The morning saw no change except that Gandalf left and Bilbo came with breakfast again.  Sam ate while the old hobbit tried to feed Frodo as he had done the morning before, but Frodo, stirring but not regaining his senses, was becoming difficult.  Though he calmed hearing Bilbo’s loving voice, he seemed unwilling to take even a few spoonfuls of broth.  Sam could see the old hobbit was becoming frightened again.  Keeping fluids in Frodo was vitally important – if he was to endure the fever and the surgery that was to come – and though Bilbo had not been told what the practice would entail, he seemed to know it would be a trial and was desperately anxious.  

 “Come now, my lad, you must eat…” Bilbo cajoled.  He tried to tip a spoonful of the broth into Frodo’s mouth but the other hobbit did not seem to understand that the warm liquid was food and could not be persuaded to swallow.  At last, after Frodo, trying to speak through a mouthful of broth, started to choke and turn blue, Bilbo stopped trying.  He looked so miserable and lost that Sam, reaching for the bowl, gave his hand a comforting squeeze.  

“Give ‘im a bit, Mr. Bilbo.  I am sure he’ll come ‘round again enough to take some.  He’s been in and out like this all night.  Just you wait till he’s more settled and try it again.”  Sam hoped he sounded more hopeful than he felt.  Bilbo sighed and relinquished the bowl. 

 “Yes, perhaps.”  The old hobbit settled back, his eyes never leaving his heir’s face.  “You are a good lad, Sam.  Frodo is lucky to have you at his side.  I don’t know how many servants would go so far and through so much for their employer.” 

 At that Sam’s face grew hot.  “Oh, Mr. Bilbo,” he stuttered.  “You were the best master a body could ever wish for.  There’s few that would’ve taught a servant their letters and spent so much ‘a their precious time tellin’ stories to the gardener’s boy.  You’ve treated me and my old gaffer better than anybody’d a right to expect.  Mr. Frodo’s the same way, though I expect he learned his quality from you.”  Sam smiled.  “No, sir, I’m the lucky one, and I know it.  There’s nobody else in the world I’d rather work for than you or Mr. Frodo, ‘cause there’s no one in the world who’d be so kind to me.  A good master’s a rare find, sir.”  

 “And a good servant is even rarer, my boy.”  Bilbo smiled back at him.  “I’ve been around for a good many years longer than you, and I know.  You’ve quality of your own, you Gamgees, and strength and character.  I knew, and I am sure Frodo knows, that we are truly the lucky ones.”  Bilbo patted Sam’s hand kindly.  “Part of what helped me to leave Bag End was knowing that you and your father would be there to take care of him.  I knew he was in the best hands he could be in.  And getting him here, like this…” Bilbo’s throat tightened and he was unable to continue for a moment.  “I am just trying to say thank you for getting him here alive.” 

 Sam looked down, embarrassed again.  “No thanks needed, Mr. Bilbo.  And besides, that were mostly Mr. Strider’s doing, sir.  And I had help from Mr. Merry and Master Pippin.  Couldn’t have done it without them too, sir.” 

 “No, I suppose not,” Bilbo agreed, though he thought he knew where most of the care Frodo must have needed had come from, he did not want to embarrass the boy further. 

 Noon came and Strider visited Frodo for the first time since they had brought him in.  He had been busy with Elrond’s people and Gandalf, gathering what news he could about the doings away to the south and east.  He chatted comfortably with Bilbo, and Sam could tell the two had known each other for a long time and were close friends.  The last doubt Sam might have harbored about the strange man was swept away as he sat listening to their easy and familiar talk.  He’d almost nodded off in his chair again when Strider asked him to see about fetching some food for them.  Sam started, wiping the cobwebs from his eyes and faltered.  Did Strider know about Bilbo’s wanting the ring?  Did he know where it was hidden, and that he should not let the old hobbit alone with his nephew?  As these questions ran through his mind, he locked eyes with the ranger and it seemed for a moment the man was puzzled.  Then Strider spared a quick look at the ornate box at the bedside and gave Sam the briefest of nods.  It seemed he understood the problem, but Sam could risk no more explanation with Bilbo present.  He would have to trust the ranger. 

 “Right then, I’ll be back in two shakes.”  He popped out the door and made his way towards the kitchens. 

 Returning with a laden tray, Sam paused outside the door of Frodo’s room.  It was half open and Sam could hear two voices speaking.  One was Strider and the other sounded like the elf lord, Elrond.  Sam could not see them, but he could see Bilbo, sitting in one of the comfortably padded chairs that Sam, when he wasn’t tending his master, had spent most of the last two days in.  Bilbo was snoring softly, his head resting against the back and his face buried in the corner of the headrest.  He was sound asleep.  Sam set the tray down silently on a small table outside the door and popped a tiny baked pastry into his mouth.  They wouldn’t be needing all this food yet, not with Mr. Bilbo asleep.  He munched his way through the dainty and reached for another. 

 “He’s not getting any stronger, you realize,” Sam heard Strider’s voice speaking.  “What will you do if he has not recovered enough to bear the surgery?” 

 Elrond’s voice, like that of every elf he’d heard was lovely and melodious, but the words he spoke chilled Sam’s bones.  “We must proceed anyway,” he said.  “It is imperative I remove that splinter before he dies or he will become an agent for Sauron – and if he doesn’t sense it already, he will then ‘know’ where the ring lies and be drawn to it.  His wraith would rise up and take it back and it would then be in the hands of the enemy.  We cannot risk that, even if it means forfeiting the halfling’s life to prevent it.”  

 “That is a cold choice, Elrond.  Bitterly cold,” came Strider’s voice in answer. 

“These are bitter times, my foster son.  There will be more lives lost than this small one’s if Sauron regains the ring.  It is not a choice I make easily nor without need, you know that.” 

 “But surely you will try to save him?” Strider asked gently, it was almost a plea. 

 “Yes, I will do everything in my power to keep him alive, but after all this time and trial, I have very little hope.  It may take all the combined power of my house just to keep him alive and to melt the shard when it is found.  I do not know what will be left afterwards to support his life.”  Elrond’s voice dropped and sounded almost, but not quite, kind.  “I see you have grown fond of him, Estel, and I am sorry, but I have seen this type of wound before.  Celebrian was not even this far gone and I was sorely pressed to save her.  In the end, even what I had struggled so hard to do was not enough to heal her fully.  I do not wish to give you false hope.” 

 “You give no hope, my foster father.”  Strider paced the room and Sam could see the swirl of his dark cloak on the other side of Frodo’s bed.  “I have watched the halfling endure this and I believe you may underestimate him.  Gandalf said it long ago that there was much more to these people than meets the eye and after the past weeks in the wilds I am inclined to believe him.  Take the shard from him, but do not abandon him to death.  They are a good people and strong.  You may be surprised how tough they really are.” 

 “I hope you are right, Estel, and though I would never abandon him to death, I cannot breathe life back when it has flown.  I will do everything that I can to save him, but I must do what I must do.”  

Sam had listened in growing horror and found his breath was coming hard and tight in his throat.  He must have been making enough noise to be heard for the elf and man stopped talking then and were silent.  Sam tried desperately to control the churning of his stomach and bent to pick the tray back up, hoping he had mastered himself sufficiently that the two would not be able to tell he had overheard them.  He pushed open the door with his rump and backed into the room, carefully balancing the heavy platter. 

 “Luncheon,” he choked, and hoped they would think his tone was in an effort not to wake Bilbo.  He placed the food on another table by the fire and looked towards his old master, carefully keeping his back to the other two.  Bilbo still sat, curled up and sleeping in his chair, but the snoring had ceased.  Sam crept closer and put a hand on his shoulder to gently wake the hobbit.  It was then that he saw that a flood of tears had welled silently from beneath Bilbo’s closed lids to soak his old and wrinkled cheeks. 


	9. Resignation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Frodo's fall at the ford to his waking at Rivendell - the story Tolkien only hinted at...

Sam could get little sleep the rest of that day for he refused to leave his master again.  He stayed by Frodo's side and tended him with stubborn silence even when Merry and Pippin returned to beg him to rest.  Sam did not tell them what he had overheard and began to resent them their optimism about his master.  He almost wished he could be as simply concerned as they were, but inside he knew it would not be right to deny them their hope and crush their bright eyes with the despair he felt.  They soon gave up trying to persuade him to come away and settled down beside the bed to wait and tend their cousin as they could.  At the dinner chime, both of them left for the meal but promised to bring something back for Sam when they returned.  Then he was left alone with his feverish master. 

If anything, Frodo looked worse than ever.  His fever had not risen any higher but the red patches on his skin and dark circles under his eyes made him look like someone had beaten him.  He still fretted and called weakly when he stirred at all, an action that had become less and less frequent as the day wore on.  After supper, Gandalf returned to sit with Frodo for the evening and with him Elrond came to examine his patient again.  Sam eyed him with barely disguised fury but said nothing and avoided looking into the ageless grey eyes as he helped the elf remove the sweat dampened tunic from Frodo's completely limp body.  Elrond changed the bandage on Frodo's shoulder and smeared the still open wound with a green salve that smelled of new mown hay.  He then left a vial of clear liquid and instructed Sam to see if he could get Frodo to take as much of it as he could. 

"Tomorrow my people will be gathered and we will remove the splinter," Elrond told him. 

"Or kill him tryin'," Sam muttered under his breath.  The look Elrond returned him showed no emotion at all. 

"Hopefully not," was all the ancient elf replied. 

It took both Gandalf and Sam's efforts to get the cordial into Frodo.  He would not swallow, or could not, and Sam finally had to slide in behind his master on the bed to hold him up enough to get the liquid down.  He rested Frodo's body against his own, holding his head back and mouth open so that the stuff would trickle down his throat.  He massaged his master's neck to entice him to swallow as Gandalf poured the precious liquid in.  When they had finished Sam pulled his master up to position him back on the pillows.  Frodo felt so thin and frail in his arms.  He had never held his master so, but the feel of his fragile, fevered body was so alien to what Sam knew a strong, healthy hobbit should feel like that Sam broke down and wept.  He wrapped his arms around his master and hugged him.  He could feel the sickness in him, could feel the hobbit's heart thudding listlessly in his chest.  All day long he had fought to keep his despair at bay, fighting it with stubborn anger, but now it crashed down around him like a wall and his sobs shook both their small bodies. 

Gandalf let him cry as long as he needed.  When at last, Sam's sobs had eased somewhat, he helped him off the bed and settled Frodo back among the pillows.  The still face showed nothing, no reaction at all to Sam's outburst, but he was at least calmed and no longer raved.  Throughout the night, Sam held Frodo's hand, as he had done the night before, but this time there was no sign that Frodo was even aware of it.  The one hopeful thing that came out of that long, desperate night was that Frodo's fever broke.  Perhaps it was the cordial that had done it, or the cool cloths or sponge baths, but the rosy blotches faded and the fire that had burned beneath the pale forehead cooled.  Frodo slept on through that night, dreamless and still, his breathing weak, but eased and steady.  Listening to the gentle sound of his master's indrawn breaths, one thankfully following another, Sam slept too. 

  

  

"He looks better this morning!"  It was Pippin's voice that woke Sam with a start.  He'd slept another night away in the comfortable elven chair.  Pippin had tried to speak softly, but to Sam, whose sleeping ears had been so tuned to the slight whisper of his master's breath, the voice had been like the sound of a trumpet.  He sat up and winced at the pain in his neck.  He still held Frodo's cold hand and the chill had made his own fingers ache, but it appeared that some of Sam's own warmth had gone into Frodo.  His master's left hand was less stiff, and, as he looked more closely, Frodo did seem to have a bit better color all over.  Hope surged in his heart. 

"I do believe you are right, Pippin."  Bilbo's voice.  The old hobbit carried another breakfast tray heaped with good things to eat and the smell of them caused a rumbling in Sam's belly.  Bilbo laughed hearing it and set the platter by the fire.  It was good to hear him laugh, Sam thought.  Even knowing what he and Bilbo did, seeing some,... any improvement in Frodo was bound to help their spirits. 

"We ought to move your bed in here, Sam." Said Mrry, jokingly.  "For all the time you've spent in it!" 

"I probably wouldn't get a wink of sleep no how, if it weren't so.  Though I don't think we'll be needin' to move it, Mr. Merry.  Mr. Elrond says they are going to try and fish that bit of knife out of Mr. Frodo's shoulder today.  One way or the other, I'll probably be sleepin' elsewhere tonight." 

At that, the others' smiles dimmed and Sam cursed himself.  _You oughtn't to have said that, Sam_ , he thought, but it was too late to take it back. 

"So they are going to try that today?"  Pippin approached the bed and crawled up onto it beside Frodo.  It was a small bed, by elven standards, but there was plenty of room on it even for several hobbits to fit comfortably.  He sat back on his feet and looked down at Frodo's pale face.  He remained that way for a long time before reaching up to his cousin's face and stroking it gently.  "I know they said they didn't want us here last time, Sam," he sighed.  "but,...could you…?"  He looked up, his small, young face pinched and sad.  "I mean, I'd like to be here," he finished. 

"Me too," agreed Merry.  "We talked it over, and we'd all like to be here.  We're his family - we're all he's got.  It's not right that we should be kept out waiting in the hall when..." His voice fell silent but the look on all their faces told Sam that Bilbo had relayed some of Elrond's fears to them.  They knew what the outcome of this surgery was likely to be and they would not be dissuaded.  They had come this far with him, they would go on to the end if need be. 

"Well, I'd like to see those elves try and keep us out, then."  Sam tried a smile.  It was unconvincing and grim but showed his resolve was with them.  "Mr. Bilbo?" 

"Yes, Sam.  I will be here too."  The old hobbit drew himself up and looked Sam straight in the eye.  "He is my heir.  I know what his chances are; they don't need to protect me anymore.  I don't think Elrond would even try to now.  I…I just want to be with him as long as I can be."  Bilbo's returning smile quivered but he was firm and resigned, though Sam could see his fingers trembled as he spoke.  Bilbo had looked dramatically older than Sam expected on the night they had arrived, but the past days had aged him even more.  He was diminishing right before their eyes, fading to powder even as Frodo sank deeper into his illness.  Sam knew in his heart, if they lost Frodo that day, Bilbo would not be far behind.  He would lose both his masters, the old and new.  Despair gripped his throat and he felt as if his tears would begin again if he did not squash the feeling immediately.  He needed to be strong.  Sam was certain that if he broke down now, it would destroy the fragile control that each of the hobbits now clung desperately to. 

"Well, then they'll have the lot of us to contend with, for I'll not leave him now.  But," and Sam paused.  It was difficult for him to continue.  "I'm…I'm glad you'll all be there too," he finished at last, his voice tight from the fight to control himself.


	10. Desperation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Frodo's fall at the ford to his waking at Rivendell - the story Tolkien only hinted at...

It was a grim day despite the fact that Frodo seemed to be improving.  His strength slowly returned as the effects of the elven cordial spread through his body and the fever abated, but he did not wake to full consciousness.  Merry, Pippin and Bilbo stayed with him the whole morning, managing to get Frodo to eat a little and noting with joy that he seemed a bit more responsive afterwards, but the dark thought did cross Merry’s mind that his cousin’s seeming alertness might be like the bright flaming of a candle wick just before it sputtered out.  It was a bleak image that he did not share with his companions.  

 That day Sam tended his master with extra care.  Not that he had ever been anything but tender, but in the quiet of afternoon after the others had left, he sat at the bedside and watched Frodo sleep.  He found he was beginning to catalog every detail, every feature or fault of his still form.  It was as if he were trying to memorize him, to preserve him in the only way he could.  _He’s a finer hobbit than I could ever dream of bein’,_ Sam thought sadly.  _I don’t know why or how, but it’s like he’s got this light inside him.  Even when he’s this sick you can see it.  He’s special somehow, and it ain’t right he’s got to be the one to suffer so._   At that moment he would have given anything he had to be able to see his master safe back in the Shire smoking his pipe in his sunny garden, at peace and contented without a care for black riders or rings, but he feared that neither of their lives would ever be as simple again.  

 They hadn’t bothered to brush Frodo’s hair since the first night and days of lying in the bed had made a rat’s nest of it.  Sam pulled out his comb and turned Frodo onto his right side, being careful to avoid jarring the left shoulder.  Then, as gently as he would handle the most tender pea sprouts, he began to work through Frodo’s tangled curls.  Frodo had always been a hobbit of tidy personal habits and Sam thought that he would feel better if he could be more presentable.  Considering the circumstances, Sam doubted his master would mind him getting so familiar.  When at last he could run his comb through the dull hair without a hitch, he rolled his master back and settled him as comfortably as he was able. 

 “There you go, sir, you look a sight better now.”  Sam smiled.  It was somehow a comfort to speak to his master as if he were awake.  Perhaps Mr. Bilbo had known that too.  He pulled his chair closer till he could lean over and speak directly into Frodo’s ear. “Can you can hear me, Master?  It’s your Sam talking.”  He looked about the silent, twilit room as if embarrassed that someone might overhear him, but, satisfied they were alone, he continued.  “I hope you can, sir, cause there’s somethin’ you ought to hear, beggin’ your pardon.  They’ve been talking about you, sir, these elves, Mr. Elrond in particular,…and, well, they don’t think you’ve got much of a chance, sir.  Now, I don’t want you listening to all that nonsense, Mr. Frodo.  You’re a lot stronger than they give you credit for and I know you’ll fight and well,…”  Sam sighed.  “You just got to, sir.  It’s not for me, ‘course, I’d miss you something terrible, but it’s Mr. Bilbo.  If he’d lose you, sir,…I…I think it would just kill him.  He’s a lot older than when you saw him last. I was just a lad when he left, but he’s aged 50 years if a day!  It’d just be the death of him, I know.  So you see, Mr. Frodo, you just got to live.”  Sam’s voice was starting to break.  “You gotta fight and prove these folks wrong.  I know you can do it, sir, if you try.”  He half fancied he saw Frodo’s brow twitch, as if he really did understand and was trying to frown.  Sam gasped and leaned closer, hardly daring to hope and touching Frodo’s shoulder gently.  “Do you understand me sir?!” he asked.  “Oh, please wake up an’ answer me.” 

 Frodo opened his mouth and he uttered a tiny gasp.  His frown deepened.  Then, with appalling swiftness, his face became a contorted mask of agony.  He screamed and the sudden, full-throated exclamation horrified Sam.  It held the echo of the haunted cry that they had heard echoing across the Marish in the Shire but it was also Frodo’s voice, in anguish and utterly terrified.  Sam jumped back, frightened that something he had done had harmed his master.  Frodo opened his eyes and stared, unseeing, at the dark beamed ceiling then screamed again, though this time with only his own tormented voice.  Sam wrung his hands and darted from the bedside to the door and back again.  Frodo was writhing, more violently than he had since coming to Rivendell and his face was turning red.  His back arched violently and Sam was scared he would toss himself bodily from the bed.   

 “HELP!” shouted Sam at the top of his lungs.  He ran again to the door and flung it open.  He raced a short way down the darkening corridor screaming in desperation, “PLEASE, HELP!” and without waiting for any answer, he ran back to Frodo’s room. 

 His master was shaking, trembling violently and his eyes were rolled back till only the whites showed behind half open lids.  His mouth was open wide and gulped, as if some weight were pressing on his chest and he were desperate to get air.  

 “Oh, master, PLEASE!”  Sam was sobbing.  He reached for Frodo’s arms to hold him down, but he was suddenly grabbed from behind and lifted bodily out of the way.  Elrond was there and he instantly placed a hand directly over Frodo’s heart.  Sam looked behind and saw that several others had come into the room; tall and comely elf lords, their beautiful faces grim and dark as they witnessed Frodo’s frantic struggles.  Elrond called commandingly to them in his elf tongue, and they arrayed themselves around Frodo’s bed, each one laying hold of his body, hand, head, leg and torso.  The hands they laid on Frodo’s body began to glimmer with a fair golden light but it did not seem to give his master much comfort.  Frodo screamed again and the sound was so forlorn and forsaken that Sam choked and wanted to fling the elves away from him. 

 “What’s wrong with my master?” he cried, still feeling that it was something he had done that was causing this torment. 

 Elrond didn’t look at him, his whole concentration was on Frodo, but he answered, his silky voice almost awed with wonder.  “He’s fighting,” he said grimly.  “I don’t know where he finds the strength, but he’s fighting us too!”  Elrond placed a hand on the side of Frodo’s face, stilling it’s frantic rocking from side to side.  “Frodo!” he called and then spoke words that Sam did not understand, strongly, insistently, willing Frodo to hear them and obey.  Frodo closed his eyes, tears squeezed from beneath the lids and his face screwed up in a grimace of agony.  “HEAR ME!”  Elrond’s command in the common tongue resounded through the room and finally Frodo stilled.  “Let us in… we are not your enemy!”  The grim elves who held Frodo’s body began a low chanting litany that seemed to still the very air in the room.  Sam could even sense the brooding power that swept over his master, enveloping him, holding him.  Frodo still shook, but whether he at last understood they were trying to help him or was simply unable to move, Sam could not tell. 

“We cannot wait.  It must begin now.”  Elrond motioned to his companions and one of them sprang to the door, almost colliding with the group of hobbits that were just coming through it.  Merry and Pippin looked frightened and lost, but they moved aside and stepped into the room followed by a terrified and very ancient looking Bilbo.  The elf slipped past and disappeared down the hall.  The hobbits clustered behind Sam and looked upon the brutal scene before them in abject fear.  Elrond smiled grimly, noticing them from the corner of his eye.  “Do not interfere,” was all he said and continued holding a firm hand down on Frodo’s chest. 


	11. Surgery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Frodo's fall at the ford to his waking at Rivendell - the story Tolkien only hinted at...

The light that had grown from elven fingers was fading, melting into Frodo’s body from each elven hand.  His trembling eased but he still wept and his face was still twisted in pain.  Elrond’s firm, clear voice joined his companions and the welling song strengthened and grew, filling the room even more with a palpable presence of power.  A great fight had begun within the body of this one small hobbit and Sam hoped that the hobbit in question would not be torn apart in the process.  Elrond grasped the front of Frodo’s thin tunic and ripped it down, baring his pale, wasted torso and the bandaged shoulder.  The bandage was dark with blood again, the same viscous stuff that had poured from the wound when first reopened.  Elrond frowned and placed both hands back on Frodo’s pale breast, forcing the elven song past his clenched lips with an obvious effort.  The door to the room opened again and the elf that had left returned bearing the tray of knives.  Strider and Gandalf followed him and the room, with its heavy, power-laden feel, grew close as the fair crowd gathered.  Gandalf, staff in hand, took up a position by the head of Frodo’s bed, opposite where Elrond sat and stood defensively by his small friend.  His face was hardened and it looked to Sam as if he were prepared to do battle.  Strider came to Elrond’s side, glancing once with great pity upon the cluster of terrified hobbits behind him, before taking up his position near the bedside table; directly, Sam noted, between the box that held the ring and Frodo. 

 With a quick nod, Elrond indicated to the elf with the tray that he should place the knives on the bed stand and then snatched up a blade from the glittering array.  He sliced through the now soaked bandages and flung them away from the swollen wound to fall to the floor with a sickening splat.  Frodo was bleeding again, profusely, but this time, Elrond did not even hesitate to slip his slim fingers inside the cut.  He pushed at the tissues, ripping new bonds of flesh that had begun to form at the edges of the wound, and worked his slow way inside Frodo’s body.  Sam noticed, with sickened revulsion, the surface of Frodo’s skin begin to swell and move as Elrond forced muscle and bone aside to reach inside the cavity.  The shoulder and breast rolled like a sack that held some vile living thing inside it.  Sam felt ill.  

 “It is here.”  Elrond pushed again, deeper and Frodo choked on a ragged indrawn breath.  He gurgled and coughed sending forth a fine spray of blood from his mouth.  The fair-haired elf that held the hobbit’s head still gasped and his eyes looked about wildly, unseeing, his bright face taking on a sudden expression of terror. 

 “Cold!”  He gasped in a small voice that did not seem to suit him.  Sam thought the words sounded astonishingly like his master’s voice.  “The cold is here.  I can’t hold it back!  It’s come for me!”  The elf grimaced; then, seeming to come to grips with himself again, shook his head and focused.  “Hurry, my lord.” he told Elrond using his own clear voice again. 

 Elrond grunted and pushed his hand deeper into Frodo’s body, using his own fingers and brute strength to thrust aside Frodo’s ribs.  There, just inside a space between two of them, his fingers at last felt the cold, hardness of the blade tip.  It wriggled at his fingertips like a living thing as it tried to burrow deeper into Frodo’s body.  One more push…  Frodo’s body rolled sickeningly to the side as Elrond shoved harder, but at last the elf lord seemed to have gotten hold of it.  The coldness of the tiny sliver was agony to Elrond’s bare hand, but he did not let go.  He pulled back and felt the thing move with him.  It was coming, though it burned with aching, bitter cold.  Slowly, so as not to lose it, Elrond withdrew his hand, the Morgul shard gripped tightly between his blood covered forefingers.  Frodo’s wound gave a nauseating, sucking sound as the hand came forth and Elrond held up the deadly sliver. 

 Though it burned with cold, it smoked and Elrond dropped it onto the platter that another elf held forth.  His hands and clothing were smeared with blood but he did not pause to wipe them.  He focused all his will on the dark blade tip.  A pool of light began to grow about the platter and the tiny thing smoked even more.  The singing that had not stopped through the whole ordeal swelled strongly from the many elven throats present and the golden light flared bright.  Sam found it too strong to look at and he turned away, but in the next instant, the light was gone, and with it, the sliver, leaving only a wisp of smoke hanging in the air.  Elrond sagged, slipping from the edge of the bed to sit heavily on the floor.  Sam looked to his master.  

 Frodo no longer trembled, in fact, he no longer moved at all.  His face had gone ashen white again and his mouth gaped sickeningly.  Flecks of red spattered his pale lips and still crescents of bright blue could be seen beneath his half closed lids.  The open wound, finally bleeding something the color of normal blood, made stark contrast against his white skin and Sam couldn’t suppress the impression that he was looking at a husk, the empty shell of something whose spark had fled.  A blaze of fury erupted in Sam’s stout heart and he rushed to Elrond, grasping the front of the weary elf’s tunic. 

 “Now, you brute, you save my master!”  He felt Strider’s arm across his chest as the ranger pulled him back, but Elrond, startled out his near swoon, looked up at the hobbit and nodded. 

 “I will…” the elf lord gasped and stood, shakily, but unassisted.  Sam was pushed back to where the other hobbits clustered and Pippin gripped his arm tightly.  Merry had his arm around Bilbo’s shoulders and looked as if he were all that was keeping the old hobbit on his feet.  One of the other elves, reached out and touched Elrond’s shoulder supportively and the elf lord nodded.  “We must.” he continued and placed his bloodied hand over the gaping hole in Frodo’s shoulder.  

 Once the shard had melted, the tone of the ever-present elven song had changed.  It became at once more joyous and exuberant though it’s power remained.  Elrond’s voice joined the song again, though it quavered with fatigue.  White light blazed instantly under the elf lord’s hand now that there was no embattling dark to hinder it, and Sam saw the blood slow and the great dark rend in Frodo’s shoulder begin to fuse.  How long it took, Sam could not have told, for he stared at the process with wide-eyed wonder.  This was high elf magic and the song and power of it filled his heart.  The healing essence spread through the room, easing the minds and terror of all who watched.  Frodo’s whole body glowed now, not with a golden light as before, but with brilliant white like starlight that seemed to come from within him.  The hobbits smelled sweet nectar and tasted clear freshness as the power surged through them all.  Sam’s heart grew light and hope swelled within him.  The darkness and fear of the last few days lifted and fled.  He felt boundless joy enter him the like of which he had never before experienced.  Surely even his master could feel this!  Triumphant specks of golden light drifted down from the surrounding air like a fine mist to settle on Frodo’s small body.  They sparkled as they touched him spread their warm glow over his still, weary form.  It was as if the essences of both starlight and sunlight infused the ringbearer with their brightness, caressing him, comforting him.  At long last, after weeks of agony and darkness, he was healed. 

 The light faded slowly and Elrond slumped.  His companions gently lifted him and bore him away, their song softly fading as they left.  Strider, his eyes wet with tears, touched Frodo’s face and turned it towards the other hobbits.  For the first time in many days, Sam saw peace in his features.  It was not the peace of death, but of comfort and color that was not the flush of fever was starting to touch his fair cheek.  Sam rushed to his master’s side and knelt by the bed, weeping for joy.   


	12. Burdened Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Frodo's fall at the ford to his waking at Rivendell - the story Tolkien only hinted at...

The ordeal had almost proven too much for Bilbo to bear.  He had had to be helped from the room and almost carried to his quarters by Merry and Pippin.  They put him to bed in his own rooms and he had fallen asleep almost instantly, exhausted and spent but at last eased of heartache.  Pippin returned to Frodo’s room, but Merry stayed with his cousin for a long while to insure the old hobbit would be all right after the stressful night.  Sam, Pippin, Gandalf and Strider changed the bed, removing the bloodstained linens and cleaned Frodo.  Though his master was still spent and unmoving, Sam could feel his heart beating strongly as he held him and he knew Frodo would be all right. 

 It was long past midnight when Pippin, curling up on the bed beside his cousin, fell into an exhausted sleep.  Strider gently lifted him and carried him to his room, but Sam could not be persuaded to leave his master even now.  He sat close, holding Frodo’s hand and laying his weary head on the bed beside him.  Gandalf, unsleeping and watchful stayed also, a tireless guard on the precious pair.  Frodo’s left hand was still chill, but the aching cold had left it and the comfort that knowledge gave Sam could not be measured.  At some point during the long night, Sam did fall asleep where he sat, but the sound of booted feet coming up behind woke him again with a start.  He blinked, stupidly, forcing himself to wakefulness and reassured himself that Frodo was still sleeping before looking to see Gandalf standing behind him. 

 “He’s really going to live now, isn’t he Mr. Gandalf?” he asked, still bleary.  

 Gandalf smiled and the joy and pride in his face warmed Sam.  “Yes, he will, my friend.  Elrond has saved him at great cost and peril, though I daresay Frodo himself had much to do with his own healing.”  

 “I weren’t none too sure about that Elrond.  He kept talking like it didn’t much matter if my master died.  It was like he didn’t even care!  But I guess he did after all.”  Sam looked again at Frodo’s peacefully sleeping face and smiled. 

 “You should not judge him too harshly, Samwise.  Master Elrond has lived many ages of this world and has seen much you cannot even imagine.  To him, the life of a mortal is like the bright flash of a dragonfly wing sparkling in the sun; beautiful, but compared to his long life, fleeting.  If he were to love such temporal things as strongly as his kind are able, his heart would have been broken long ago.  If he seems cold, it is only a protection, a shield against those he could grow to love only to lose far too soon.” 

 Sam blinked again and shook his head.  “I never thought of it that way, sir,” he said. 

 Gandalf laughed softly and his eyes twinkled with merriment.  “I understand that feeling all to well myself, Samwise.  You hobbits underestimate your own power to get under one’s skin, so to speak.  You have charms that even the mighty cannot withstand, if they bother to get to know you.”  He grinned broadly.  “Quite a dangerous lot you are!” 

 Sam caught himself yawning.  “Dangerous?  Not hardly!” he scoffed.  

Gandalf glanced over at the bedside table his eyes fixed on the rune-covered box that still rested there.  “Yes, and formidable.  I cannot think of a people who could have done what Bilbo had Frodo have for the past 77 years, but that heinous job is not quite finished.  There is one thing left for Frodo to do.” 

 “And what’s that, Mr. Gandalf?” said Sam sleepily. 

 “He must bear the ring again.” 

 Sam stiffened, waking more fully as the implications of Gandalf’s words sunk into his tired brain.  “Oh, Mr. Gandalf…” he pleaded.  “After all he’s been through for that accursed thing, can’t he be given a bit of rest?  Doesn’t he deserve it?”  

Gandalf picked up the box and took it, closed, to Sam.  “He must continue to bear it for a little while longer, Samwise, though I hope it will not be for long.  Now that he is healed, we need to return it to him.”  

 Sam eyed the old wizard with great hesitation.  “Aw, no, Mr. Gandalf, sir.…” he said.  “Wouldn’t this be the time to find another more worthy person to take the thing?” 

 “More worthy?”  Gandalf looked shocked.  “I can think of no one more worthy than Frodo Baggins, my friend.  But if you mean deserving of this burden, I would say that no one on earth deserves it – but it must be borne and by someone who will be least harmed by it.  Frodo has been tempered by pain and blood and is a weapon whose mettle has not yet been tested against the enemy.  I think he will withstand the evil power of the ring far better than any can foresee.”  He opened the box.  The ring lay in the bottom, glittering palely in the candlelight.  A new chain of fair silver had been strung through it.  

 Sam looked up sorrowfully.  “Must I?”  

 Gandalf nodded and Sam, very reluctantly, reached in for the chain.  It was light and strong and slipped easily through Sam’s fingers.  He lifted it up and let it dangle for just a moment as if weighing it.  Gandalf nodded to him again and Sam slowly undid the clasp.  Being careful not to touch it, he laid the thing on his master’s breast and reached gently under his neck to redo the clasp.  When it was done, he gave Frodo’s gown a tug and the ring slipped beneath it, hidden from sight.  He sat back; not feeling at all comfortable about what he had just done, and sighed.  

 “That was powerful hard, Mr. Gandalf, sir, but I suppose its best for the time being.  I just hope you’re right and these great folk’ll find someone ‘deserving’ to take it on for him.  He don’t deserve all this trouble.” 

 Gandalf smiled and closed the box.  “One’s fate is rarely deserved, in the truest sense of the word, but none can avoid their own.  We must all do our parts, no matter how small or insignificant they seem.  The fate of the world may someday depend on the acts of the least of us.”  He put the box down and gave Sam a comforting clap on the back.  “Your part is neither small nor insignificant, Samwise, and I believe much of it is yet to come.  You will do well.” 

The End 

_The Fellowship of the Ring: Book 2, ‘Many Meetings’_

_Frodo woke and found himself lying in bed.  At first he thought that he had slept late, after a long unpleasant dream that still hovered on the edge of memory.  Or perhaps he had been ill?  But the ceiling looked strange; it was flat, and had dark beams richly carved.  He lay a while longer looking at patches of sunlight on the wall, and listening to the sound of a waterfall._


	13. Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Frodo's fall at the ford to his waking at Rivendell - the story Tolkien only hinted at...

  
Sam approached the dark carven door of Frodo’s room balancing the heavily laden breakfast tray on his arm. It was now two days since the council had been held and Frodo had agreed to continue to bear the ring – all the way to Mordor, wherever that lay. Sam had heard of it, but only in the tales that Bilbo had sung to him, and he was still coming to grips with what that journey might entail. It was further than Rivendell had been, that he understood, but his knowledge of foreign parts only told him that the road lay somewhere to the south. He put the tray down and knocked timidly on the door. Frodo did not answer so he pushed the door open and peered inside.

His master lay still sleeping though the sunlight filtered into the room. Sam picked up the tray again and brought it in as quietly as he was able. He puttered about for a bit, tidying the room and wondering if his master would wake on his own but when he didn’t, Sam came and sat by the bed again.

Frodo still looked drawn and pale but, Sam reminded himself, the wound and then the council and all had been a dreadful trial. It had taken quite a toll on him. Mr. Frodo would need a long time to properly recover. Unfortunately, the rest and care he would need to do so were not things he was likely to find on another trip into the wild. Sam leaned back in the chair and propped himself on one elbow, observing his master thoughtfully. Frodo lay on his side, facing the windows that overlooked the falls. One arm was curled up under the pillow, the other, the left that had been so cold and lifeless, lay draped across his side. He looked peaceful and contented despite his haggard appearance. It was good to see him comfortable at last. As Sam sat, he thought on the events of the last few days. He had not been surprised that Frodo had offered to take the ring. His master was, of course, the bravest, most noble hobbit he had ever known but Sam was surprised that none in all that great council had tried to discourage him. They had denied Bilbo, with courtesy and respect, but allowed Frodo to take on the task that none of them seemed willing to attempt. Hadn’t his master given enough? Sam was very troubled. It seemed to him that his master had been brighter and more radiant than any in that company and that wizard, man and elven-kind had offered him, the most honorable one, up almost as a sacrifice.

When Sam was a lad, his father bought a lamb for the Mid-year’s day feast. Sam remembered its bright eyes and the shining whiteness of its coat on the day before it was to be slaughtered. He had played with it in the yard, letting it suckle his fingers and watching its snaky, quivering tail wriggle in delight. He was old enough to know what the lamb was purchased for, but still he could not help being drawn to its cheery, youthful energy. It seemed to him that this innocent thing, that could have no notion of its doom, was somehow aware of its fate. Yet while it could, it still played and reveled, as if it knew that the gift of life was something to be cherished to the end. In Frodo these last few days, Sam saw something of that lamb; the sacrifice before his time had come, walking open eyed into a dread from which it knew there was no escape.

Sam shook his head. It could not be so. Though he understood very little of the overheard talk, one point had been made perfectly clear. Mr. Frodo’s ring was very dangerous and could not be got rid of by any other course than the one chosen. Sam shifted uncomfortably in the chair. These were higher matters he had a right to consider but as he would not be parted from his master, they did concern him now. It seemed a dreadful mission and one few supposed would succeed, but he could not believe the elven lords and Gandalf would send his master on an errand that had no hope. Still, he wished with all his heart that some reprieve would come before they set out, some stay that would save both he and his master from this journey for Sam knew Mr. Frodo would not go back on his promise.

Frodo stirred but did not wake. He rolled onto his back and the injured left hand draped across his belly. The sunlight from the windows beyond outlined Frodo’s profile in dark relief. He would be waking soon, Sam surmised, but felt no need to hurry the process. Only two days up and about, his master could use all the healing sleep he could get. Sam pondered leaving the tray and slipping out, but even though Frodo was healed and resting peacefully, Sam was still anxious about him. There was an air of such melancholy about his master, even at peace in this comfortable, cheery house, that Sam was almost moved to tears. He thought again of the Mid-year’s lamb. He had played with the gentle creature all that day, delighting in its joy at life, frolicking with it on the warm grass, but as evening drew near and his Gaffer had come to collect it, Sam could not find it in his heart to go with them to the butchering shed. He could not bear to watch that sweet creature perish, as he knew it must. The Gaffer had looked at him disapprovingly, knowing his son had given his heart to the animal, but when Sam said nothing and let his father lead the lamb away, Hamfast let the matter alone. Sam spent the rest of that night alone in the garden, wrestling with his feelings. What surprised him most was that he did not lament caring for the doomed lamb at all, nor did he regret an instant of the day spent in the sunshine with it, but he was dreadfully ashamed at not having the strength to accompany the animal on its final journey. He had always regretted that choice. He would not have been able to spare the creature, but he could have calmed its fear, made its passing easier and thanked it for the day in the sun. He had been too weak to do any of those things and the memory still haunted him.

Frodo sighed and stirred again, though this time his eyelids fluttered and opened fully. He stared at the dark beamed ceiling for a moment, as if not remembering where he was and then turned to look at Sam. A sleepy smile lit his face and Sam was brought back from his thoughts.

“Morning already?” Frodo asked softly.

“Aye, master, and I’ve got a nice breakfast for you, if you’re willing. Kept it good and hot by the fire.” Sam sat up and reached for the dressing gown the elves had provided, a dark blue, weighty thing that seemed made of wool, but infinitely softer. “I’ll set it out by the window there, if you’re ready.”

Frodo yawned and stretched a bit, but held his left arm more gingerly than the other. Yes, this wound would be a long time in healing. “I’d like that, Sam, thank you,” he answered and rose from the bed to slip into the robe Sam held for him. When Frodo left to freshen up, Sam set out the breakfast on the small table by the window. Eggs and bacon, mushrooms grilled in butter, jam and thick, soft bread like the loaves Gildor had fed them quickly covered the table. Sam had just set down the pot of tea and a cup when Frodo returned. He looked upon the ample fare with delight.

“You sit yourself down, Mr. Frodo, and if there is anything else you’d be needing, you just give me a holler. I’ll be in earshot.”

“Oh, Sam! You don’t expect me to eat all this without help, do you? Please, sit and join me! You’ve brought far more than I could manage on my own. I might need some fattening up, but if you continue to feed me like this, they shall have to roll me to Mordor!”

Sam almost grimaced at the reminder of what lay in their future, but he hid it well, or so he hoped.

“Well, sir, I’ve had my breakfast with Mr. Merry and Master Pippin, but I’d not say no to a bit of that bread again. It’s like that stuff we ate in the glade with the elves – and I’ll surely never tire of it.”

“Well then, you shall have it,” smiled Frodo, and he motioned towards the other chair at the table. Sam sat and tore a crust off the sweet elven loaf. They ate in companionable silence until Frodo had had enough to satisfy even Sam, and then pushed their chairs back to digest the meal over tea. At Bag End, Sam had often come in for a cup before starting to work in the morning, so their ritual was a familiar one, but he wasn’t usually so quiet. Frodo noted it.

“Beg pardon, Mr. Frodo, Sir. I guess my mind’s been a bit scattered lately,” he said, blushing slightly. “I just haven’t felt much like talking.”

Frodo put his cup down and looked at him kindly. “You’re worried about the journey ahead of us, aren’t you?” he asked quietly. “Why Sam, you know I must go, but if you feel the task you were meant to do is completed, then I won’t hold you, you know that! I doubt Lord Elrond would bid you go if your heart was truly set against it.”

“Mr. Frodo! You can’t mean it! You ought to know by now that I’d never let you go off with no one but a lot of big folk and elves for company! Who’d take care of you, sir? Besides, it would kill me for sure knowin’ I’d let you go off by yourself into danger when I was home safe by my own fire! I just couldn’t do it!”

“I know that, Sam, I know.” Frodo looked out at the waterfalls lit bright white by the morning sun. His blue eyes were thoughtful. “Do you remember what you said to me in that glade outside of Woodhall? About having something to do before the end, and not being able to go back until you had finished it? Well, I realized before we left the Shire that I would never go back to it, but I couldn’t see my future or where the road ahead of me led.” Then he paused, and Sam saw the sadness return to his face. “Now, I do. The road leads into peril and darkness, but it must be trod and I must be the one to do it.” He sighed and glanced at Sam from the corner of his eye, almost ashamed. “The ring is very powerful, Sam,” he said in a soft voice. “Though I have had it for years, I never really realized the danger it held. How can I, in good conscience, not destroy it when the fate of all I know depends on its destruction?” His master was looking down at his hands and Sam had the feeling there was much more that Frodo was not saying. “It must be destroyed,” he continued. “And I could not give it to any other to do it.”

Sam was silent again. It was not his place to question his betters, nor argue with his master, but as he looked on Frodo’s troubled face, he saw again the haunted visage that had lain so still in the sickbed. He’d given so much to keep Mr. Frodo alive, and still they nearly lost him. Perhaps since he’d worked so hard at saving it, that made Mr. Frodo’s life seem all the more precious to him. He didn’t really know. All he did know was that it pained his heart to know that his dear master would soon be plunging back into deadly peril.

Frodo was staring out the window again, towards the west where the sun was coloring the wooded sides of the steep valley a brilliant morning gold. In the reflected light, Frodo’s eyes looked almost unearthly – a shade of blue that rivaled the clearest autumn sky. There truly was something transcendent and extraordinary about him. It shone forth so clearly that Sam wondered how all could not see it as well as he could. He felt a surge of sorrow rise up in his throat. Why did it have to be his master? If ever there was a more precious hobbit, he could not imagine it. Frodo deserved so much more than to be the willing sacrifice on a dangerous journey. He deserved a life – and a long one, with those who loved him. He deserved a wife and family, home and hearth, comfort and safety and to be cherished as long as he lived. At that moment, Sam ached for nothing more than to tend the garden at Crickhollow, caring for his master to the end of his days. He could almost see it in his mind. The cozy house, a sweet lady hobbit at his master’s side and little ones running about with eyes the same brilliant hue as Frodo’s. He would be there too. Possibly dear Rosie Cotton would consent to be his and they would move to Bucklebury and start a family of their own. He would tend Mr. Frodo’s gardens and then his own sons would care for them after him, as he had followed in his father’s footsteps. Oh, what a sweet dream it was.

Frodo sighed and picked up his tea again. He seemed to come out of his reverie but there was still a hint of sadness on his face. He poured himself another cup and smiled at Sam as if apologizing for his silence.

“I understand, Mr. Frodo. Honest, I do. But it don’t stop me from wishin’, Sir. I might not be a party to all these great doings, but I can wish they’da passed us by this time, you know?”

Frodo laughed, and it was a sincere laugh from the heart. It was a joy to hear. “Why, Sam, you will never cease to make me laugh! Yes, as usual, you see most clearly. I would not have minded being ‘passed by’ again but we have lived as the unknowing beneficiaries of others’ labors for so long. It is time for us to step forward and do our part at last.” His smile was as bright as the sun. “It really is a privilege for us to be the ones chosen for this task! Can you imagine if Lotho had inherited Bilbo’s ring? Lotho Sackville-Baggins representing the Shire to the rest of Middle Earth!” He laughed brightly again. “The very thought makes my blood run cold!”

Sam could not help smiling at that. “Well, I might wish it weren't yours to take care of, Sir, but I’ll go where you do, come what may. I’ve not finished the job, so to speak, and I won’t have till you’re home safe again.”

Frodo’s smile faded a bit but he gave Sam a brief nod. The motion’s meaning was not lost on Sam. _‘Yes, Mr. Frodo, till you’re home safe again, I’ll be at your side. That’s the job as I see it, and a more important piece of work I’ll never see again. I’ll see you safe home again if it kills me.’_

The Mid-Year’s lamb was cooked overnight in the clay stove on the crest of the Hill. It had come out succulent and tender, as fine a lamb as his mother Bell had ever cooked, and the family told her so repeatedly. Sam remembered that day, sitting at the table surrounded by his siblings and staring at the roast before him. He knew it would be delicious, his mother was a very good cook and he was hungry, but he could not bring himself to touch the meat. His father noticed Sam’s lack of appetite. After the meal he called Sam to him and led the boy out to the garden for a talk. Sam remembered fidgeting nervously; the Gamgees were not wealthy and the waste of food was not tolerated. He thought he knew what the topic of Hamfast’s lecture was going to be but his father surprised him.

“Do ya think you was respectin’ that lamb by not eatin’ a morsel, my lad?” his father had asked. Sam had looked up startled and his father smiled. It was not what Sam expected. “Do ya think it’s better to act as if he’d never been, and throw away the gift he gave you?”

Sam sputtered, not knowing what to say and Hamfast set the boy on the old log that served as a garden bench. “Um… no,… sir?” he answered, not sure if that was what he should have said or not. The Gaffer merely smiled again.

“My boy, I want ya ta think about somethin’ important. It’s somethin’ I learned about life a long time ago – and it’s somethin’ you’ll learn someday, maybe if you’re payin’ attention.” Sam was all ears. His father gave out lots of advice, but there was nearly always some bit of deep wisdom in it. “Everybody makes a difference, boy,” he said. “It don’t matter if you’re a lamb or a gardener, everybody makes some dent in the lives a’ somebody else. Can’t live in this world and avoid it. Now, that lamb there. He made a difference. At the least, we won’t go hungry tonight, but at the most,…” and there he’d peered closely at Samwise. “Maybe he taught you a thing or two about living.” When Sam returned a confused stare, the Gaffer continued. “It’s a big thing to offer, yer life, even if yer nothin’ but a spring lamb, and it’s not given lightly. Even if the meal’s over and the lamb’s ‘et up, those who ‘et ‘im are better off than they was before, right?” The Gaffer’s eyes twinkled. Sam was a bit lost. “He gave you a gift – himself ta eat – and you ought to be thankful for it. By not takin’ that gift, it’s like throwin’ it back in the poor thing’s face. Now, you wouldn’t want to do that, would ya?”

Sam had thought about that for a long moment. “But it still hurts, Dad. I feel like I did something wrong…Oh, I don’t know.” Sam was almost on the verge of tears.

“There weren’t nothin’ you could have done different yesterday,” his father said quietly. “And nothin’ I’d a’ rather seen ya do. You took care a’ that little thing and kept it happier than it mighta been otherwise. That was mighty brave a’ you.” Sam blushed and looked down, but he still felt that he had somehow failed. “But there is somethin’ different you can do t’day… and for the rest a’ your life…” the Gaffer added. Sam looked up again. “Ya kin live the life that lamb gave up his own to give ya. Take the meat, eat hearty and live a long happy life. Ya want ta do honor to ‘im? Then remember the sacrifice that lamb made and never take it for granted as long as you live.”

Sam still remembered that afternoon – it had made quite an impression on him. He never did forget that lamb, nor the lesson it and his father had taught him. He looked up from his tea to the silhouette of Frodo drinking his across the table. Though the curls were soft brown instead of pearly white, here too was a lamb. Sam’s throat tightened at the thought. Despite what his Gaffer had assured him, he still felt guilt at not having accompanied the spring lamb to slaughter even so many years later. He would not make that mistake with Frodo. He would never leave his side no matter what happened.

Besides, Mr. Frodo was a hobbit, and not a lamb, and Sam was still certain the elven kind would not send him on this journey if there were no hope of his returning. If Sam stayed by his side, he would be able to keep his master safe and someday Sam’s vision of Frodo in Crickhollow with a happy family at his side would be a reality. The image filled him with warmth and purpose. Yes, it was something to reach for – Mr. Frodo happy and whole in his own home, a passel of little ones to care for, and a sweet patch of garden to for him to mind – a brighter future Sam could not even imagine. He wasn’t sure if that was the ‘job’ he had to finish or not, but it was a worthy one. He would see it through.


End file.
